


Coyote Summer

by MindfulWrath



Series: Coyote Summer [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gunplay, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Western AU, Wild West AU, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Strife never thought being crooked would be easier than being lawful. By all rights, it shouldn't be; but there's precious little to do when everyone's too afraid of the sheriff and his deputies to commit any crimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby's In Black

_Sheriff's been wearing black these days._

The pencil made mousey sounds as it swirled around and around on the paper. Strife's palm had gone numb from propping up his chin.

The door opened, letting in a burst of cold and a hissing draft of snow. Strife barely glanced up.

"Just another poor sonnuva bitch frozen to death," Parvis said, stomping the snow off his boots. "Hobo, by the look of her. Rail men didn't see her 'til they'd already ran her over, on account of the snow. Musta been there a good damn while, too, 'cause the wheels cut her clean in half and there weren't hardly any blood or nothin'. Froze solid."

"Hm," said Strife. The paper was grey and shiny with pencil lead.

Parvis sighed. He hung his hat up and crossed to his desk, or what passed for one. It was an old door laid across two sawhorses, wedged into the corner. The sawhorses were too short, and if Parvis hadn't been perpetually sticking his feet out into the main thoroughfare of the office, his knees would have bumped the underside of the door.

"Preacher men said they'd bury her," Parvis went on. "Asked if they could use our graveyard, on account of there ain't another church in town and they'd hate to put her all by her lonesome."

"Hm," Strife said again. The pencil tore through the paper. He pushed it aside and started drawing circles on the one underneath.

"You been drinkin' again, Sheriff?" Parvis asked sharply.

"No," Strife said.

"You been _thinkin'_ about drinkin'?" he pressed.

"No," Strife lied.

"Well then what in the hell have you been _doin'?"_

Without looking up, Strife grabbed a handful of papers and held them aloft. They were all black with lead.

"Oh, what the _hell,_ Sheriff, we got a _job_ to do."

"Not lately."

"Just 'cause ain't nobody been murdered don't mean there ain't no crimes."

"None for us."

"Just 'cause nobody won't tell us nothin' don't mean it ain't happenin'."

Strife's jaw tightened.

_Sheriff's been wearing black these days._

"What're they sayin' about me?" he asked.

"Five words all together? Damn, Sheriff, you _sure_ you ain't been drinkin'?"

"Parvis," he warned.

Parvis sighed. "Same thing they always say in front of me, Sheriff. _Wouldn't say a word against him._ And I'm damn sure they wouldn't, neither, but it don't tell me anythin' about what they _think_ of you."

"Already know _that,"_ Strife said.

"I bet you think you do," Parvis agreed.

The pencil tore through the paper again. Strife's whole body locked up as he fought down the impulse to crack his desk in half. He settled for snapping the pencil.

"Sheriff," Parvis began, a note of concern in his voice.

"We got any business?" Strife asked. He started pulling the splinters out of the broken end of the pencil.

Parvis sighed again. "Well, sixty dollars went missin' from Miss Minty's safe. Old Man Peculier's sure somebody's been stealin' his firewood, but the old coot can't count for shit so I ain't bothered about it. Mr. Xephos—"

"Skip it," Strife interrupted.

He could almost hear the grinding of Parvis's teeth.

"Fine," Parvis said at last. "Apart from all that, Nano's still missin', Lomadia ain't been seen outside her house for days, and young Able White's been killin' chickens again."

Strife mulled this over in silence.

"Sheriff?" Parvis said at last.

"See if you can't convince somebody to check in on Lomadia," Strife said at last. "Don't go yourself, in case she's done somethin' nasty to herself. Mr. Turps ain't never gonna believe Nano ran off, so ain't no point talkin' to him. If the Scot boy ain't been stealin' from Minty, he knows who has. Give Old Man Peculier a couple of our logs, oughtta shut him up."

Stringing so many words together had left Strife's tongue heavy and numbed, his head aching. He rubbed at his temple.

"What about Able?" Parvis asked.

"I'll deal with Able."

"Mrs. White'll skin you alive, you come within fifty feet of that boy."

"I'll yell," Strife said. He got up and made his way to the door. He hardly limped at all anymore, but the cold made the old stab wound in his side ache, and he moved stiffly because of it. He shrugged on his coat, tugged on his gloves, and jammed his hat on his head.

"You sure you don't want me to come with you?" Parvis asked, half-rising from his chair.

"Yep," said Strife, and pushed out into the driving snow.

_Sheriff's been wearing black these days._

He wasn't sure who'd said it, or when he'd heard it, but the phrase had been echoing in his head for weeks. It was true, so far as gossip could be; over the past six months, whenever Strife had had to replace a piece of clothing, he'd replaced it with black. Most of his cold-weather clothes had been eaten through by moths, so once winter sunk its teeth in, he was more often than not seen dressed entirely in black, from his boots to his hat, stark against the snow.

He couldn't have explained why; it would have taken too many words together, and more introspection than he liked to bother with. It had something to do with mourning, generally for Kirin. Strife had not attended the funeral, had never visited the grave, never spoke the man's name.

It would have felt like sacrilege, considering Strife had shot him between the eyes at midsummer, and especially since there were only two people in the entire world who knew he hadn't meant to.

_Sheriff's been wearing black these days,_ they said, and Strife knew what it meant even if no one elaborated.

The sheriff's gone crooked. The sheriff's gone bad. The sheriff's been wearing black these days, to match the color of his reputation.

Snow crunched and squeaked under his boots. He walked quickly, head down. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see all the other people on the streets move to avoid him, lower their gazes, speed their paces as he approached. He tried not to look at them—tried not to _see_ them—but it was unavoidable.

The Whites lived on the south side of town, in a small house with a large, fenced-in yard for chickens. Echo, the youngest child and only daughter, was outside, kicking patterns into the snow. Strife leaned an elbow on the fence and cleared his throat.

She looked up, huge brown eyes open wide, her button nose red with the cold. She froze, staring at him.

He touched the brim of his hat, nodding to her. "Howdy, Miss Echo. I'd like to speak with Able, if that's all right with you."

Trembling, she nodded, then darted inside. Strife waited, bracing himself for the inevitable. Mrs. White would storm out, undoubtedly, and pin his ears back for him. Corvy, the eldest child, would probably be there, too, a brick wall of a boy with fists like ham hocks.

Instead, the door opened again and Able slipped out.

It had been a year since he'd seen the boy, and there were notable changes. He'd grown his hair out, keeping it in a low ponytail at the back of his neck. His eyes were dark and shifty. He moved at a sort of crabwise stalk that made him look perpetually guilty. He'd grown four whole inches and, like any fifteen-year-old, he gangled.

Able sidled up to the fence and looked Strife up and down.

"You want somethin'?" he asked.

"Ain't your mama home?" Strife countered. He still had a good six inches on the child, and spent all of them looking down on him.

"She's workin'," Able said. "You want somethin'?"

"You been killin' chickens again."

"No I ain't."

"Parvis says you have."

"Parvis is wrong. I ain't killed no chickens."

"Somebody's been."

"Well, it ain't _me."_

"Got a history," Strife pointed out.

"So do you," Able snapped, "but you don't see _me_ pointin' fingers every time somebody gets shot."

_"Boy,"_ Strife snarled, pulling himself up to his full height. Able shrank back. Strife forced himself to unclench his fists, to swallow back the anger burning his throat.

"It's true," Able whined.

Strife took a deep breath and let it out again. "You got an idea who _has_ been killin' folks' chickens?"

"No," said Able, insolently. "Why're you askin' _me,_ anyhow?"

He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Boy," he said, "how come you killed those chickens?"

"I _told_ you, I ain't—"

"The first time."

Able folded his arms and glared at the coops. He wasn't wearing a coat, and snow was collecting in his hair.

"I dunno," he said. "'Cause I felt like it."

"Why'd you feel like it?"

"I dunno. I just _did._ 'Cause I could. 'Cause they're loud and dumb and _damn_ annoyin', all right?" He spat the curse like a foreign word.

"And your mama, what'd she do about it when she found out?"

"What's it matter to you?"

"Beat you, huh?" he said, expressionless.

Able stood in silence for a long moment.

"Yeah," he said, a challenge in his voice. "And so what?"

"Only I notice it ain't your chickens been killed this time."

"Yeah, 'course not, 'cause I didn't wanna get in trouble again!"

Strife eyed him. Able flushed, then puffed himself up.

"What d'you care, anyway?"

"Them chickens are somebody's property, Able," Strife said.

"So?"

"You wanna kill somethin', go out and kill you some ki-yotes."

Able stared. "You jokin'?" he asked.

"I look like I'm jokin'?"

"You . . . you ain't gonna tell my ma, are you?"

Strife snorted. "Hell, no, she'd skin me alive for so much as lookin' at you."

"And you don't mind I killed Miss Kaeyi's rooster?"

"So long as you make sure she gets a replacement, I ain't gonna press the issue." He leaned down and prodded Able in his scrawny chest. "But you listen up, boy. I got my eye on you, 'cause the way I see it, ain't too much of a leap from chickens to pets, and ain't too much of a leap from pets to _people,_ so you just watch yourself, 'cause you're man enough now to be hanged like one."

Able had gone white as the snow.

"I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't kill a _person,_ Sheriff," he croaked.

"Knew a kid back in Kentucky," Strife mused. "Real sweet boy. Charmin'. Seven years old, used to set him li'l traps for squirrels and then cut the varmints open to see what was inside. Twelve years old, poured a whole lamp out on his neighbor's cat and burnt it up. Thought it was the best joke ever told. Fifteen, he took issue with his mama tellin' him what to do and he strangled her to death. Know what that boy said to me when I took him in? He said, _oh, I wouldn't kill nobody, Sheriff._ 'Cause him, he didn't think anybody he knew was really a person. Far as he knew, he was the only real person in the whole wide world, and the rest of us was just _toys._ So when you tell me you ain't gonna kill a _person,_ Able, you'd better be damn sure your definition matches mine."

Able gulped.

"That . . . that really happen, Sheriff?" he said. "His own ma?"

"In her own kitchen," Strife confirmed.

The boy shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. "I . . . I won't hurt nobody, Sheriff," he said. "Nothin' that ain't a ki-yote, from now on. I promise."

Strife clapped him on the shoulder. "Good," he said. "Now go inside, 'fore you catch your death of cold."

"Yessir," said Able, and hurried back indoors.

His throat dry, tongue heavy from all the talking, Strife headed off towards the western edge of town, and Ravs's saloon.

Warmth and noise washed over him as he entered, but as he closed the door behind him, the saloon went silent. He took off his hat and let it hang by its string down his back. He tugged off his gloves and stuck them in his pocket, hung his coat up by the door. He crossed to the bar and sat down, not looking at anyone. He tapped the bar with two fingers and waited.

The noise had slowly begun to build again when a shadow fell over him. He looked up.

Ravs was a thickset, red-nosed man, hairy as a dog and square on every facet. He had his arms folded, and his eyes were narrowed to gleaming black slits.

"I told you once, I told you a hundred fuckin' times," he grunted. "You leave that fuckin' gun at the door or you walk the fuck out."

Strife sighed, drew the gun out of his belt, and held it out to Ravs. "You keep it," he said.

Ravs scowled, but took the gun from him, setting it on a shelf under the bar.

"Fuckin' menace," he accused. "Fuck d'you want to drink?"

"Usual," Strife said.

"One goddamn shitty whiskey, comin' up," Ravs said.

Strife grunted a thanks. It wasn't until he was three drinks deep that his mouth felt lively enough to talk again.

"Hey Ravs," he said, flagging him down as he went past.

"Fuck d'you want?" Ravs demanded.

"You seen my goddamn deputy anywhere?"

"Which one?"

"The goddamn one."

"Last I heard, he was gettin' religion."

Strife scowled. "Thought we'd already gave those preacher men all their damn documents."

"Fuck if I know, but that's where he's been."

He sighed, threw back the last of his whiskey, and fished a few dollars out of his pocket to slam down on the bar.

"Better go get him, then," he said.

"Leavin' already? And it ain't even fuckin' dark yet."

"Gimme back my damn gun."

"How 'bout you go fuck yourself," Ravs said, passing the gun over the bar.

"Damn wonder you ain't got yourself shot yet," Strife grumbled, stuffing it into its holster.

"Not every damn bastard in this town's as fuckin' trigger-happy as you."

"How 'bout _you_ go fuck yourself."

"Keep that up, you can find you _another_ fuckin' saloon to get kicked out of."

"You kick me out, I shut you down," Strife retorted over his shoulder as he crossed to the door.

There was a collective scooting of chairs, a sudden lull in the babbling conversation as forty pairs of eyes all turned to Strife at once. He glared around the room, meeting as many gazes as he could.

"Y'all don't wanna get shut down," he said, "tell ol' Ravsy here not to kick me out."

"Get the fuck outta my saloon, you fuckin' drunk," Ravs said.

"Tell all your outlaw pals I said _hi,"_ Strife returned, shrugging on his coat.

All the gazes followed him as he pushed back out into the snow.

 


	2. And Curse Sir Walter Raleigh

The walk to the new church was warmer than the walk to the saloon, but likely not because the temperature had changed. The snow had tapered off to a thin mist, but the sky was steely gray and heavy with the promise of more. The new church was covered in snow; the roof, the stairs, even the rough-hewn walls. Built at a drunken lean, the crooked steeple had bent even further under the weight.

Strife hesitated on the doorstep, taking his hat in his hands. He threw a glance up at the sky, clenched his jaw, and shoved the door open.

It swung shut behind him, hinges squealing. The church rang with silence, the sound of a steel thread bowed by a single taut hair. Grey light spilled in through the windows like grimy slush. The candles were unlit, the pews empty, the floors scuffed. Behind the pulpit, a rugged crucifix loomed, sawed out of the cores of two mighty pines. Sap still ran down its sides and beaded at its foot, gruesome in aspect.

Strife glanced up again. The rafters were spotless, save for the glimmering tracks of late-risen sap.

"If _I_ ain't been struck dead yet," came a voice from the sanctuary, "I don't think there's much chance of _you_ takin' a bolt from the blue."

His eyes snapped back to the front of the church. Emerging from the little room to the left of the sanctuary, Ridge grinned at him. He was dressed in white and tan, his dark hair curling over his collar, his gold tooth glinting.

"Pity," said Strife. His voice was too loud in the silence.

"Ain't it just," Ridge sighed, striding down the length of the church. His boots clicked on the floor, and he jingled as he walked. "I was just leavin', why don'tcha come with me?"

Strife didn't bother to reply, as Ridge had already thrown an arm over his shoulders and was steering him back out the door. The cold stung at his face as they emerged back out into the snow, which was already thickening again.

"What're you doin' here?" Strife asked, peeling Ridge's arm off of him.

Ridge tucked his thumbs in his belt and tipped his head back, jingling with every step.

"Oh, me? I was just havin' me a chat with our preachers."

The jingling was really quite loud.

"You been stealin' from 'em?" Strife demanded.

Ridge grinned. "Stealin', Sheriff? Me? Naw, nothin' like that. Now, I may well be fifty dollars richer, but it ain't through any dishonesty on _my_ part."

"That's a new one," he grumbled.

"Hah! No, no, Sheriff. They gave me all that by their own free will. It is _astonishin'_ what folks will pay you to keep your mouth shut once they know you got somethin' to say."

Strife glared at him.

"So you're blackmailin' 'em," he concluded.

The snow was coming ever thicker, while the population of the streets thinned. Even as the two of them approached the center of town, the number of pedestrians dwindled. It was difficult to say if this was because of the worsening weather or the worsening company.

"Blackmail? Naw, I wouldn't call it that. I never threatened nothin', Sheriff. Just told 'em what I knew and they fell all _over_ themselves to buy me out."

He grunted. "Must be a helluva thing you know."

"Oh, it's a real doozie, Sheriff," Ridge agreed. "I'd tell you, but that'd make me a dirty lyin' bastard, and I do hate to lie to men of God."

"Like hell you do," Strife said.

Ridge laughed again. He pointed to a thin alley between the general store and the post office.

"All right, you duck on in there with me and I'll whisper it to you," he said.

"I ain't goin' nowhere with you."

"Funny thing, seems like you already went all the way this far with me."

"I ain't goin' in no damn alleyway with you."

"Aw, c'mon, Sheriff, it's just right here, won't even hardly be a detour."

"I _said—"_

Ridge whirled, grabbed him by the coat, hauled him into the alleyway and slammed him against the wall. He pressed close against him, warm in the chill air.

"You been avoidin' me, Sheriff," he said, smiling. His eyes glittered.

Strife looked down at the hands clenched on his lapels, then back up to Ridge's eyes.

"Wonder why," he said dryly.

Ridge sniffed. His smile cracked open into a grin.

"And now you _do_ come see me, you been drinkin'," he said.

His lip curled. "Wonder why," he repeated.

 _"God_ you are a sonnuva bitch," Ridge breathed. He grabbed Strife's jaw and kissed him.

Strife would give him this: Ridge was a damn good kisser. He put his whole body into it; set a driving rhythm that was almost musical; and he was _rough,_ rough enough to strike sparks off, to kindle something dry and hungry in Strife's chest.

It helped, of course, that Strife hated him with every fiber of his being. It was easy to be honest with someone on a foundation of mutual loathing.

Strife shoved him in the chest, hard. Ridge broke off and shoved him back, cracking his shoulder-blades against the wall.

"Somebody's gonna see," Strife growled, pretending he wasn't out of breath.

"Everybody already knows," Ridge said. His grin had not faltered. "Let 'em look, they ain't gonna do a damn thing about it. I could fuck you in the goddamn town square if I wanted."

Sickly heat rose under Strife's collar, flooding towards his face. He grabbed Ridge by the shirt and hauled him into another kiss, quickly, before the blush made itself visible. Ridge chuckled against his lips and pressed his palm to Strife's chest. He leaned his thigh into the fork of Strife's legs and kissed his way along Strife's cheek to his ear.

"You wanna come home with me tonight, Sheriff?" he inquired.

"Go to hell," Strife spat.

"That a yes or a no?"

_"No."_

Ridge kissed his cheek, pressed his thigh up into Strife's groin. Strife sucked in a breath as his hands tightened on Ridge's shirt.

"How 'bout," Ridge offered, "I get you drunk off your pretty li'l ass, and _then_ you come home with me?"

"Said _no,"_ Strife said, breathless.

Ridge rocked against him, putting pressure on all the right places.

"Won't nobody else fuck you when you're drunk," he said. "I know for a fact Parvis won't. He don't _like_ it. Thinks it's bad for you. And he ain't _wrong,_ but damn, it's a shame he won't fuck you."

"Get _offa_ me," Strife said, shoving him. Ridge clapped a hand around Strife's throat and squeezed.

"I ain't done," he said. "How 'bout, Sheriff, I just get you drunk off your ass, and we'll go from there."

Strife tried to kick him in the shin. Ridge brought his leg up sharply, and all the air went out of Strife in a burst of needling pain.

"You just nod or shake your head, Sheriff," he said. "I got me a real nice bottle of gin, hate to have to finish it on my own. You wanna share it with me, Sheriff?"

Because he was starting to see stars, and because the pain in his groin was starting to make him sick, he nodded.

Ridge pecked him on the cheek and stepped back. Strife sagged against the wall, letting Ridge's shirt slip out of his fingers.

"All three of them preacher men are fuckin' each other," Ridge remarked, pushing his hat back.

This took a moment to settle into Strife's brain.

"Huh?" he said at last.

"Well," Ridge said, "you wanted to know what _I_ know that they didn't want me tellin' nobody, and that's it. They're all three fuckin' each other. Dunno if it's all at once, or just two-by-two, but I don't s'pose it really matters."

Strife stared at him. "Fifty dollars," he stated. "For that."

"Fifty dollars _this_ month," Ridge said, grinning. "And fifty dollars next month, and the month after that, and so on and so forth until I get bored or they go broke, one."

"At which time, you tell God an' everybody their so-called dirty secret?"

"Oh _hell_ no, Sheriff. Then I give 'em a month to sweat on it, and then I start askin' me some _favors."_

"And they just up and _volunteered_ for that, did they?" Strife sneered.

Ridge laughed. "Naw, Sheriff. They don't even know about next month." He winked. "Yet."

"If ever a man deserved a slow hangin', it's you."

"Ooh, boy howdy, I'm gonna have 'em put that on the next poster."

The snow was coming down so thick by then that it was beginning to obscure Ridge, three feet in front of him. Ridge looked up at the sky and clicked his teeth.

"I think we'd best get on back to the station, huh, Sheriff. After all, you an' me got a date with a bottle of gin."

"Hope you get lost and freeze," Strife muttered.

"Aw but then Sheriff," he opined, "who'd be left to get you ragin' drunk?"

* * *

 

Parvis sighed when the two of them entered the station. He got up from the nice desk—the one that, up until that summer, had been his—and slouched back over to the door-across-two-sawhorses.

"Howdy, Parv," Ridge said brightly, crossing to the safe nestled in the corner.

"Who you been after _this_ time?" Parvis asked, sullen.

"Preacher men," Strife said, hanging up his hat.

"Oh, for the love of _God,_ Ridge," Parvis said.

"In this case, I think He might approve," Ridge said. He twiddled the knob on the safe and hauled it open. It was piled high with bank notes and coins, and Ridge added a heavy leather pouch to the mass before kicking the door closed.

"When Hell freezes over," Parvis countered.

"Look outside, I think we're there."

"Oh, ha-ha." He rounded on Strife. "And where the hell've _you_ been?"

"Talkin' to Able," Strife said.

"Awful long talk."

"Yep."

"You been drinkin'," Parvis accused.

"Oh, lay off the man, Parvis," Ridge cut in, sauntering over to his desk. He flung himself into the chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk. "He came by to oversee my dealin's with the false prophet."

"Did he," Parvis intoned. "So who all's dead?"

 _"Parvis,"_ Strife said, already halfway to a snarl.

"By the looks of things," Ridge answered, "God."

"You think you're so goddamn funny," Parvis snapped.

"I pay you to think so, too."

"You're gonna have to start payin' a helluva lot more."

Ridge turned to look at him, very slowly, his eyes half-lidded. Parvis shrank down on his bones.

"You say somethin', Parvis?" Ridge inquired sweetly.

"No, sir," Parvis said.

Ridge's grin was lazy as a bend in the river.

"That's what I thought," he said, and turned his eyes back to his desk. He tugged open a drawer and pulled out a black box. The lid flipped open to reveal brushes, cloths, oils and polishes. Out came the gun from its holster on his hip, and he poured the bullets out into his palm and lined them up on the desk like toy soldiers. With an expression of sublime unconcern, he started cleaning the gun.

Quietly, Parvis sighed.

"Talked Doc Lalna into checkin' on Lomadia," he mentioned. "Turns out she's stove up in bed with some kinda cough or other. Doc gave her some syrup or somethin', said she'd be fine in a week or so, provided she don't freeze to death in the mean time."

"Hm," said Strife.

"Gave Old Man Peculier a couple of our logs, like you said," he went on. "He said it didn't change the fact somebody's been stealin' from him, but thanks all the same. Went an' talked to that Scot boy, too, about Miss Minty bein' stole from."

There was a long pause, filled with the fingernail noises of steel brushes on gunmetal.

"What'd he say?" Strife prompted at last.

"Uh," Parvis said, "he said _go fuck yourself, sir._ That's his sir, not mine."

Strife snorted. "Been around Ravs too long. Tell you what, next time you see Minty, you tell her he said that, see how fast she finds out who took her cash."

Recoiling, Parvis said, "I don't wanna _hurt_ the poor kid, Sheriff."

Ridge raised his head with a puzzled expression, considered the ceiling, then shook his head and went back to cleaning his gun.

"What?" Strife demanded of him.

"Huh? You talkin' to me, Sheriff?"

"Yes, I'm talkin' to you. What was all that?"

Ridge's expression of supreme innocence was somehow unconvincing.

"All what, Sheriff?" he asked.

Strife went after the lower-hanging fruit and turned to Parvis.

"Why'd he just roll his eyes at you?" he said.

"Hell if _I_ know, Sheriff, what's it matter, anyway?"

"'Cause you said you didn't wanna hurt that Scot boy, and he rolled his eyes at you, and I'm wonderin' just how much I'm gonna have to change my opinion of your character _today."_

Parvis's face went dark. "You _have_ been drinkin'," he said.

"Well goddamn, Parvis, maybe that's 'cause I gotta deal with you!"

"If you been _drinkin',"_ Parvis said, seething, "then you ain't gonna deal with me at _all."_

"When y'all get married, make sure it's Parvis wears the dress," Ridge interjected, grinning.

 _"Shut up!"_ Parvis snarled, rounding on him. "Shut the _fuck_ up, you piece of shit! I have had it up to _here_ with your bullshit teasin'—"

"Don't get me all riled up now, Parvis. I already promised the Sheriff I'd fuck _him_ tonight."

Parvis stopped, like he'd been running up the stairs and had found them one step shorter than expected.

"That is _not_ what happened," Strife said. "I ain't had no part in none of that."

"Both of you can go to hell," Parvis spat, and stormed out without bothering to put a coat on.

Ridge looked up at Strife and grinned.

"Now you gone and made him mad, Sheriff."

"You know damn well I ain't the one made him mad."

"You're the one who was out drinkin'."

 _"You're_ the one teasin' him."

Ridge made a face, then inclined his head, as if to say a fair point had been made.

"Shoulda told you, Sheriff," he mentioned. "That big ol' bottle of gin, I left it at my place. So you want any part of that, you gonna have to come home with me."

"No thank you, then," Strife said. He leaned down and tugged open the bottom lefthand drawer of his desk.

The snow hissed and sputtered against the windows. Strife closed the drawer again.

"You gotta stop keepin' it in there, if you want him to stop takin' it," Ridge said.

"Wasn't even in the bottle," Strife mumbled, heat spreading out under his cheeks.

"So? That's your damn liquor drawer, anythin' in there is gonna get poured out the second you leave the room."

After a moment's hesitation, Strife pulled open the bottom righthand drawer, too. He cursed through his teeth and kicked it shut again.

"How many drinks you had today, Sheriff?" Ridge inquired. He was polishing the stock of his gun, a thin line of concentration between his eyebrows.

"Three," Strife said. "Ish."

 _"Ish,_ oh, all right then," said Ridge. "That'll prob'ly hold you 'til tomorrow. Unless you fancy goin' back to Ravs's place. Sure you'll sleep just fine on three-ish drinks."

Strife ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

"Fine," he said at last.

Ridge's grin could have oiled all the gun's moving parts all by itself.

"Sheriff, you are gonna regret the hell outta this," he said.

"I already damn well am."


	3. Why Don't We

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oy  
> there's dongers in this chapter
> 
> Oh yes, and many thanks to Sparx, who will know why.

Strife was drunk, and that was fine; because Ridge was drunk, too, and this was not something Strife had ever been privy to before, and he was praying like hell he'd remember it in the morning so he could be sure to never let Ridge live it down.

"Twelve _thousand_ dollars?" Strife inquired, propping his chin on his hand.

"Yeah," Ridge said, draped over the table, one hand resting on the jar of greenish oil that had inexplicably come in with the gin and had remained unopened the entire evening thus far. He straightened up and corrected himself. "No—no, _fifteen, fif-_ goddamn _-teen_ thousand dollars. An' us with only a—a damn fuckin' wagon an' four pair of hands to carry fifteen thousand dollars outta that damn back, seven—no no no— _twenty_ men all shootin' at us, comin' down like a hailstorm—"

"That so?" Strife said.

 _"Yes,_ that's damn well so, don't you look at me like that." He shook a finger at Strife, glaring muzzily. "So anyway there was us four—of us, an' twenty of them, an' us tryna lug twenty thousand dollars into the damn fuckin' wagon an' the horses all losin' their damn minds 'cause of all the shootin', an' we almost—damn near _almost_ got outta there, only the fuckin' sheriff turns up all mustaches an' hats an' he's got no less'n _five_ damn deputies with him—"

"As if the seven fellas up on the bank wasn't enough."

"Thirty, there was thirty of 'em on the bank," Ridge corrected. "An' all shootin' like crazy people. So _anyhow,_ this fuckin' sheriff turns up and I swear to _God,_ Sheriff, the dumb son of a bitch starts _talkin'._ Tellin' us to drop the money an' he'll let us live—tells the sons of bitches up on the bank to _stop shootin',_ boy, I _ask_ you, how dumb you gotta be?"

The snow had melted in Ridge's hair, and it was still damp. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and the drink. His coat was draped over the back of his chair, his shirt unbuttoned halfway and the sleeves rolled up.

"Uh-huh," said Strife, who was seeing two of everything and therefore enjoying the view twice as much.

"So of course me an' the boys drop all the money, _whump,_ right into the dust, and then—ahahah—then we all of us, we _all_ draw right then an' there, nobody said a word—hah!"

He pressed his forehead to the table, giggling. He slapped the flat of his hand on the wood, shaking his head.

"Oh _God,_ Sheriff, it was so damn pretty, you shoulda seen it, boy, you shoulda _seen_ it. _Bang bang bang!_ I ain't never shot so fast in my goddamn life, but every last one of 'em, _pop!_ Right 'tween their eyes, all of everybody, _pow pow pow!"_

"You musta had a awful lotta bullets in that gun," Strife said, fighting down a smile.

"Well, okay, so _I, me, person'ly,_ I didn't shoot all twelve of 'em. But I got six, all of 'em dead, I guess th'other three took care of everybody else."

"Right, the rest of those thirty fellas that was def'nitely there."

Ridge lifted his head and glared, one eye squeezed almost all the way shut.

"You are _such_ a sonnuva bitch," he sighed.

"And you're a goddamn liar," Strife countered. "How you keep that tongue of yours from runnin' off and leavin' you?"

"Oh, it tries, partner, it tries."

"I ain't your partner," he said.

"Lemme pretend, partner, just for a li'l while, just gimme that for a couple hours." He sighed deeply. "God damn, I mean, I love the dumb idjit halfway to death, but Parvis gets so damn _tiresome_ after a coupla years, _you_ know, don'tcha Sheriff?"

"No," Strife lied.

"Yeah you do," Ridge said. "'Course you do. You ever get tired of fuckin' him? I do. Love him to death but _boy_ it gets old. Even after five goddamn years apart. Five goddamn years, Sheriff, you ain't teach him shit?"

"You shut the fuck up about Parvis," Strife snapped.

Ridge perked up like a hound scenting a fox. His eyes gleamed.

"You ain't never fucked him, have you," he said, awed.

"We ain't talkin' about this," he said.

"You ain't never _fucked_ the dumb sonnuva bitch!" Ridge crowed. He slammed both palms down on the table and rocked back, cackling. "Oh, Jesus _God,_ and here me, I was just thinkin' he was just bein' coy with me!"

"Would you _quit?"_

"Quit? _Quit?_ Why in the hell would I _quit,_ Sheriff, holy shit, this's fuckin' _incredible."_

Strife was flushing so hot he could feel his skin sizzling. He put his face in his hands.

"I mean," Ridge went on, "Parvis ain't never worked more'n a year with a sheriff without at _least_ gettin' a cock in his mouth."

Strife went rigid. All the drunkenness only served to make him feel like he was drifting on an open sea; it did nothing to soften the blow, or to loosen the strain of his muscles.

"Oh," Ridge said softly, still mocking him, always _mocking_ him. "Guess you didn't know that, either."

"You're a goddamn liar," Strife growled.

"What, you think he _wants_ you?" Ridge asked, laughing. "You think he wants _you,_ some washed-up drunk without a shred of self-respect left in him? He didn't even want you before you let yourself go to hell, elsewise he'd've done somethin' about it."

"Shut up."

"I known him longer'n you, I know what I'm talkin' about, Sheriff. He don't want you. But me, now, Sheriff, _me?_ I am just a sucker for washed-up drunks without a shred of self-respect."

Strife glared at him. "Then why don'tcha go fuck yourself?" he demanded.

He laughed again. "Naw, the only flaw in my self-respect is my unaccountable desire to fuck _you,_ Strife."

Shooting to his feet, he snarled, "Don't you _call_ me that."

Ridge drew so fast that Strife never saw it happen. His hand was rock-steady. Strife began to wonder if he was as drunk as he'd seemed.

"Sit back down, Strife," Ridge said calmly. "We're havin' us a nice li'l chat, ain't we? Hate for things to get violent." He grinned. "Yet."

"Put that shit away and stop _callin'_ me that," Strife insisted.

"What, _Strife?_ Naw, I kinda like it. Think I'm gonna call you that while I'm fuckin' you. _Sheriff_ just don't got the same ring to it. I've fucked so many sheriffs, I'd be hard pressed to recall which one's you."

"You are so full of shit."

"An' my gun's full of bullets, Strife, so why don't you sit your pretty ass back down."

"You're gonna shoot me, why don'tcha just do it?" He wasn't thinking right. He was _furious,_ furious and hurt and unmanageably drunk, and if he didn't get to break something soon, he was going to end up breaking himself.

"That what you want, Sheriff?" Ridge asked. He got to his feet, and put a hand on Strife's chest, and shoved him back into his chair. "You want I oughtta shoot you, right here an' now?"

"That ain't what I—" Strife began, but was forced to stop when Ridge jammed the barrel of the gun between his teeth. Lightning crackled down Strife's spine and his hands fumbled for purchase on the legs of the chair.

Ridge's whole face lit up.

"Oh, _damn,_ Strife, I forgot you liked that," he purred.

 _"Ghhkh,"_ Strife said, struggling to swallow. His whole world was spinning, and residual sparks were crackling around under his skin, earthing in his belly.

Ridge's fingers curled into Strife's shirt, and he pushed the gun further into his mouth. Strife's back tried to arch him out of the chair. Ridge planted a boot right on his groin, and Strife sucked in a startled breath as another bolt of lightning scattered through him.

"Don't guess you've ever sucked a cock, Strife," Ridge said casually. "Maybe that's for the best, 'cause this one here ain't one you want finishin' with your lips still on it, huh? But maybe good for a li'l _practice._ I think you oughtta get some _practice."_

Strife shut his eyes. Somewhere, not too far below the gin, some part of him was aware that he shouldn't be enjoying this, that he ought to be revolted by the entire affair. This part coiled up sickly in his stomach while some other part pressed his tongue to the barrel of the gun.

"Seems like you already got an idea of what to do," Ridge remarked, sounding impressed. "Maybe you got took care of once or twice by a kindhearted lady. Or a poor one, leastways. Guess even _you_ sometimes get lucky, huh."

The gun slid back, and then forward again, in and out of his mouth, prodding him in the back of the throat until his eyes welled with tears and the sickly little thing in his stomach got up and shifted uncomfortably. Every time the barrel went in, Ridge pressed his toes down on Strife's cock, and each time two bolts of lightning arced through him, meeting in the middle, leaving his core glowing red-hot, warming all the drunken seas inside him.

"Jesus," Ridge breathed, "I'm about to make you cum, ain't I?"

Strife swallowed, his eyes snapping open. That was too much, that was _certainly_ too much, it was undignified, it was downright _shameful._ But the heat was still building in him, the steely taste of the gun thick on his tongue and the pressure on his cock and Ridge's eyes all over him, taking in every twitch and gasp and whimper. The more he tried to fight it down, tried to dissuade himself with images of how Ridge would mock him, of how filthy and pathetic he would look, the faster it built, like a locomotive picking up speed, until it was unbearable, until he was clutching the legs of the chair white-knuckled and clenching his teeth on the gun and bucking his hips up into Ridge's foot and it all came rushing out out of him at once, an internal fireball scorching the underside of his skin and burning up everything inside him in a blinding flash.

It left him twitching, dizzy, sick with shame. His skin burned, like all his blood was boiling, like the fireball still smoldered underneath.

 _"Shit,"_ Ridge hissed, and yanked the gun away, and dragged Strife out of the chair and onto his knees. He fumbled at his belt one-handed, tangling the other hand in Strife's hair.

"Practice is over, partner, and goddamn, I hope you learned somethin'," Ridge said, and stuck a thumb in the corner of Strife's mouth to pry his jaw open. Strife put up no resistance, even when something significantly wider than the barrel of the gun was thrust between his teeth, hot and pulsing and tasting nothing like steel.

"Oh, _fuck,"_ Ridge whimpered, clutching Strife's hair with both hands. "Oh, fuck, oh God, _finally."_

The gin was catching up to Strife. He had trouble finding Ridge's trouser legs with his fumbling hands, and time was getting slippery. He pressed his tongue to the shaft in his mouth, but even that took more effort than it should have.

How was it supposed to go? At some point he'd known, or at least had a vague idea. There _had_ been ladies, a few, over the years, but he hadn't so much been paying attention to the fine details. There had been one time, with Parvis, not too long ago, but it had been so _good_ that it had blown his mind clean out. . . .

Ridge gave him a hint by pulling on his hair. Strife moved back, and then forward, bobbing his head, leaving a sloppy sheen on Ridge's cock and his own lips and chin. He couldn't seem to get any kind of rhythm going, couldn't coordinate his tongue with the rest of him, and he kept choking whenever the head jammed against the back of his throat.

Ridge let out a low whine.

"Strife," he warned, "you don't hurry the fuck up, I'm gonna bend you over that table and fuck you myself."

The sound of his name made the back of his neck prickle. He was still hot with shame and afterglow, but something stirred within him anyway, something endlessly hungry and only momentarily sated.

He tried anyway, tried to focus, tried to collect himself enough to unravel Ridge the same way he himself had been unraveled. Every little gasp was a private victory, every quiet curse a conquest; but minutes passed and there was no end to it, no resolution and no forward progress.

 _"Hell with it,"_ Ridge growled at last, and dragged Strife off of him. He caught Strife's biceps and hauled him to his feet, then immediately threw him down on the table. Strife tried to stand up, but the cold, damp barrel of the gun pressed against the nape of his neck and arrested his movements. A crackle of electricity scurried out from the contact.

Ridge kicked his legs apart and undid Strife's belt with his free hand, a certain amount of urgency to his movements. The jar of greenish oil was shoved in front of his face.

"Open that up, sweetheart, or this is gonna be real painful for both of us," Ridge said. "You moreso."

"You do it," Strife growled, his voice hoarse from the abuse of his throat.

Ridge yanked Strife's trousers down and pressed against his bare ass, nestling his cock right between the cheeks. He put a hand on the small of Strife's back and drew circles with his thumb.

"I _will_ fuck you raw," he said, "and you will not like it. You don't open the jar, I'm goin' in dry and you ain't gonna walk for a week."

After four uncoordinated tries, Strife managed to get the jar open. It smelled powerfully of olives. Ridge took it from him. The gun had never left the back of his neck, and the sparks were still skittering out every time he moved. Something inside him was aching, like it was empty, craving fullness.

Ridge's hips left his, and then one slick, cold finger pressed into him. Strife gasped and jerked, and Ridge laughed.

"Now, me," he said, nearly conversationally despite a certain breathlessness, "I've got this thing about de-layed ga-ratification. Which means, case you didn't know, that I get what I want, it just sometimes takes a li'l while. But see, the waitin' makes it better when I _do_ get it."

A second finger joined the first, stinging the inside of him. Strife pressed his forehead to the table and thanked the God of Gin for his recent gift of numbness, and not just the physical kind.

Ridge was fucking him slowly with his fingers, watching Strife curl and arch and writhe. Strife could feel his gaze prickling on the skin of his back, scattering more sparks amongst the ever-growing stream flowing out from the barrel of the gun against his neck.

"So this right here," Ridge went on, pressing his fingers out from each other and making Strife squirm and whimper, "this here is the delay. You're gonna get some of it in a second, once I'm sure I'll fit in there. Wouldn't wanna have to start over."

Strife shivered. His fingernails dug into the table while Ridge worked him, while the honey-gold voice drizzled down over him, slick with smugness.

And then Ridge pulled his fingers out, and Strife had to bite his cheek to keep from crying out, because he was so empty it _hurt,_ so empty he thought he was going to die. There were slimy noises from behind him.

"So that's the—ah—delay," Ridge remarked, his voice strained. "And this here—oh, Jesus God, this here's the gratification."

The tip of Ridge's cock kissed his entrance, and then Ridge slammed into him so hard it cracked Strife's head against the wall. Strife screamed and arched, only managing to bruise his neck against the barrel of the gun.

Ridge fucked with all the subtlety and restraint of a locomotive in full steam. He kept the gun pressed to Strife's neck and kept the palm of his other hand heavy on the small of Strife's back, holding him down against the table. With every pounding thrust, the heat rose under Strife's skin, until he started to get hard again, until it gushed out his lips in humid whimpers.

With three deep, decisive thrusts, Ridge finished inside him, moaning his name. Strife's knees went weak, and his cock throbbed.

After a few moments of panting, Ridge set the gun on the table, pulled Strife upright, and kissed him behind the corner of his jaw, lingering. Strife whimpered as the softening cock inside him shifted with the movement, brushing something that set off a whole _thunderstorm_ of lightning that went rattling around through all his body.

"Oh, goddamn, Strife," Ridge murmured. "Y'know, we could do this all damn night, you and me. And then you again, and then me again, and then maybe both of us together. . . ."

Strife shivered. Keeping his eyes open and his feet underneath him was getting to be more effort than it was worth, and the whole world was spinning crazily.

"You like that idea, Strife?" Ridge asked. "I like that idea."

Strife was leaning heavily back against him. He seemed like the only steady thing in the whole world, steadier even than Strife's own body around him. Ridge trailed a hand down his chest and wrapped it around his cock, and Strife sucked in a breath and squirmed.

 _"Ooh,_ damn, that's good," Ridge said, leaning into him. "Hope you don't mind I just stick around in here—" he wiggled his hips, and Strife whimpered— "'cause otherwise it's just gonna be a helluva lot of work to get back in. I don't think you mind."

His hand was still slick with oil, and it glided along Strife's shaft easy as breathing. Strife's knees threatened to go out again.

"Don't pass out on me now, partner," Ridge admonished. "Parvis always passes out on me, and that ain't no fun. After all, we got all night. . . ."

 


	4. For No One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no dongers until further notice

Strife woke up in the morning alone, sore, and reeking of sex. He hobbled over to the table and finished off the bottle of gin for breakfast. He dressed himself, collected his things, and dragged himself home through the snow, every step sending a lance of pain through his insides. Never before in his life had he been so sore, not even after a forty-mile stint on horseback.

He spent an hour in the outhouse, freezing and miserable, then broke the ice on the tin tub out back and scraped the sweat and grime off his skin with his fingernails, as best he could before the gin and the frigid water robbed his fingers of their capability. He was certain he wouldn't have been able to do any of it sober.

By the time he got to his office, it was nearly noon. He tried to walk normally, though it caused intense discomfort in areas he'd prefer not to think about, and kept his face set in a hard scowl.

Ridge was not inside, and Strife allowed himself to relax, if only slightly. Parvis was there, though, sitting at his makeshift desk, whey-faced and staring at nothing.

The door closed behind Strife with a click. Cold wind chased snowflakes around his feet and then subsided. Parvis did not look up.

Strife went to his own desk and sat down, gingerly. There was, shockingly, no more paperwork than there had been the night before. Slowly, he turned to look at Parvis.

Parvis swallowed. His eyes were red. His hands were folded in his lap, clenched.

"Doc Lalna's dead," he croaked.

The words dropped into the soup of Strife's brain like stones and were lost. He blinked.

"What?" he said.

Parvis took a deep breath through his nose.

"Doc Lalna's dead," he repeated.

This time, it stuck. Strife sat back and put a hand over his mouth. The room was spinning. For the first time in months, he wished he was sober—though on second thought, that would probably have only made it worse.

It seemed impossible. Lalna was a fixture, constant as the sky. He had his moods, of course, his nights and days, his clouds and storms, but he was always _there,_ always around in some form or another. So far as Strife knew, he'd never even left town for more than a day.

It was like coming outside one day, and looking up, and seeing a matte-black expanse of _nothing._

"How?" Strife asked. "When?"

"Last night," said Parvis. "That Littlewood fella found him this mornin'. Drank himself to death at his desk. Half the bottle still sittin' there open."

Parvis raised his bloodshot eyes to Strife's face, and there was an accusation in his expression.

"Oh," said Strife. His liquid breakfast was not sitting well.

"Oh?" Parvis parroted. "That all you got to say, Sheriff?"

 _It ain't my fault,_ he wanted to say. _It's got nothin' to do with me. Ain't my fault. Don't you look at me like that, Parvis, I ain't done nothin'._

But all he said was, "Yeah."

Parvis's jaw tightened and he returned his eyes to his desk.

"You been drinkin' Ridge's gin, Sheriff?" he asked. "Don't bother denyin' it, 'cause I can smell it on you all the way over here."

"Why'd you ask, then?"

"Oh, I dunno, I maybe hoped you'd say it wasn't Ridge's."

Strife sat and stared at nothing. The fleeting wish for sobriety had passed—to the contrary, he was on the verge of checking his desk drawers just in case there was a bottle Parvis had missed. Thinking hurt, and thinking about this in particular was torture. He would much rather have drowned himself and postponed it all until he'd learned to hurt less.

"Who's takin' care of the body?" he asked, hoping to deflect the conversation back to, if not more comfortable, then at least less personal territory.

Parvis was silent for a moment, then said, "Preacher men."

Recoiling, Strife said, "Them? Why?"

"Man ain't got no family, and Nano's gone."

"Got friends, don't he? Damn near everybody in this godforsaken town owes him more'n they could ever pay back—"

"Oh, he's got patients, sure. Those ain't the same as friends." He paused, then corrected himself gently, _"Had_ patients."

Strife sucked his teeth. Things were not clicking into place in his head as they should. Something was niggling at him, but he couldn't catch hold of it.

"The hell're the preacher men gonna do with him, anyways?" he grumbled. "Don't guess they've got anythin' to put him in yet."

"Hell if I know, Sheriff, but you can't just leave the man to rot at his desk."

Strife chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to kick his brain into gear. _Something_ was off, he was sure of it. He just had no idea what it was.

"We oughtta go look," he said. He forgot to suppress a wince as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Like hell," Parvis said, staying in his seat. "Guarantee you, half the town already thinks we killed him, the other half'll be convinced real quick if we start pokin' around."

"That don't make no damn sense," Strife said, heading for the door. He found he could either stop himself from limping or walk in a straight line, but not both.

"Somebody's gonna shoot you dead, Sheriff," Parvis warned, standing.

"Good," said Strife, jamming his hat back on his head. "You comin' or what?"

Parvis ground his teeth for a moment, then said, "Well _somebody_ sober oughtta be there," and crossed to his side.

"Why, in case I'm too drunk to look at shit?" Strife asked. He shrugged on his coat and attempted to button it. After four failed attempts at the first button, he cursed under his breath.

Parvis took his hands and moved them away, then buttoned his coat for him. Heat ran out under Strife's skin like oil, and he steadied himself against the wall, reaching one hand behind his back in a manner he hoped was covert. He made the mistake of looking at Parvis's face.

His expression was one of profound sadness. Strife's breath caught, his heart forgot to beat.

"Parvis, I. . . ." he began.

"Not when you been drinkin', Sheriff," Parvis said. He patted Strife's chest and moved past him to take his own coat down from its peg.

"I can't talk when I ain't been drinkin'," Strife said.

"If you can't say it to me sober," he replied, putting on his coat, "I don't wanna hear it."

Strife had taken in the breath to reply, but Parvis pushed open the door before he could speak, and the cold froze his jaw shut, and he let the breath out in a cloud of fog that was lost amidst the snow.

* * *

 

Doc Lalna was slumped over his desk, his hair pooled on its surface, one arm stretched out across the top of it. He might have been sleeping, if it weren't for the terrible stillness of his form. His fingertips were blue. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. A thin line of drool had slid from the corner of his lips and formed a frozen little puddle underneath.

There was a bottle of rye whiskey on his desk, honey-gold, half empty and uncorked. A dead fly was suspended in it; a live one was crawling around the mouth of the bottle, lethargic in the cold.

Strife looked for as long as he could stomach it and then went back out into the hall and sat down. Doc Lalna had kept chairs in the hall so people could wait outside while he saw to other patients. Parvis sat down in the one across from Strife and folded his hands, leaned his elbows on his knees.

"Damn," said Strife, choked.

"Damn," Parvis agreed.

"How come . . . how come ain't nobody . . . y'know, taken him away yet?"

Parvis shrugged and sniffled. "It's cold enough in there, I don't think they gotta. Poor bastard's prob'ly . . . froze solid by now."

Shaking his head, Strife sat forward, mimicking Parvis's posture. "Musta been . . . pretty early in the night, then. When he . . . died. Otherwise he'd've kept the fire up and it still woulda been warm in there."

"S'pose so."

The thing niggling at Strife's brain came around again, biting down harder and wriggling more. He tried to focus on it, but it slipped away into the background blur. Frustrated, he scoffed at himself and shook his head.

"Damn," he said again.

"You seen what you needed to see, Sheriff?" Parvis asked, his words barbed.

"Sure I have," Strife muttered. "Just can't damn well figger out what it _was. . . ."_

Parvis paused. "Huh?" he said.

"Somethin' about this ain't right," Strife said.

"Oh, for God's _sake,_ Sheriff!" Parvis cried, shooting to his feet. "Of course it ain't right! The man's dead! The drink killed him, and now he's dead! How long before it's _you_ froze to your desk in the mornin', huh? How long before I wake up and _you don't?"_

Strife looked up at him. He was suddenly, incredibly tired, like someone had filled his bones with lead and sucked the fire from his blood. He sighed and hung his head.

"Don't do this, Parvis," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is it troublin' to you that I don't wanna see you dead? Is that bothersome?"

"Quit it, Parvis."

"'Cause I guarantee you, it's a damn sight more troublin' and bothersome to me! You're so damn quick to get your feelin's hurt, you don't never give a thought to how _I_ feel about it!"

"I don't give a damn about you, Parvis," Strife snapped. His insides were all cold, and he wished he hadn't said it the moment it left his lips—and yet, it was only fair, wasn't it? Parvis had only been using him all this time. Parvis had never loved him. Parvis had never _wanted_ him. It was only fair.

Parvis stopped short. "You— _what?"_

"You heard me," Strife said. Aching, creaking, he got to his feet. "I'm goin' back to the office to find some paperwork to do. You go find Ridge and make sure he ain't killin' nobody."

"We ain't done here," Parvis said.

"I am," Strife replied, starting to leave.

Parvis caught him by the arm. "Well _I_ ain't. The hell do you _mean,_ you don't give a damn about me?"

Strife met his eyes, though it took all his focus to stay steady.

"Maybe I'll tell you when I ain't drunk," he said nastily, "if you still wanna hear it then."

Parvis let go of his arm. Strife walked out without looking back.

* * *

 

It came to him in the middle of the night, jerking him awake and hurling him out of bed. He ran barefoot through the snow, which glowed under the light of a half moon, and impacted on Parvis's door, pummeling the wood with a fist until it was thrown open.

 _"Jesus,_ Sheriff!" Parvis cried, looking out on him. "Get inside, holy shit, you're gonna freeze to death!"

Strife was already on his way inside as Parvis talked, shoving the other man aside. His feet were full of needles and his skin was stinging, but it hardly mattered. He grabbed Parvis by the lapels and shook him.

"Doc was murdered," he growled. He was hungover, his head aching fit to burst, but by then his body felt like a footnote to the wild conviction burning in his blood.

Parvis stared. "What?" he said.

"Doc was _murdered,_ Parvis," Strife said. The words were hot in his mouth. "He was froze solid, he musta been dead for hours. He didn't die in the night, Parvis, he was dead before the sun even went down. No man ever drank himself to death on _half_ a bottle of whiskey, Parvis."

"Holy shit," Parvis breathed. "Holy shit, Sheriff. Poison?"

"We gotta go check on Lomadia," Strife said, turning for the door. Parvis caught him by the arm.

"You ain't goin' outside like that," Parvis told him. "At least put on some damn shoes."

"There ain't _time,_ Parvis," he snapped. "She's been sick, ain't she? Takin' some syrup Doc gave her?"

"I know!" he hissed, keeping his voice low. "It ain't no call to freeze to death!"

"Ain't gonna freeze to death, Parvis, let go." He tried to jerk his arm out of Parvis's hand. Parvis only tightened his grip.

"Then you're gonna lose your toes. Longer you argue about this, the more time you waste. We're gonna get some damn clothes on you, Sheriff, and me too, and then I swear we'll run all the damn way to Lomadia's right after."

Strife ground his teeth, then said, "Fine."

"Wait here, I'll be right back," Parvis said.

"Why?" Strife demanded, but Parvis had already taken off into his house, padding on stockinged feet into the darkness.

Parvis returned, bundled up in a heavy coat and holding up his trousers with one hand. In the other hand he was carrying a coat, another pair of trousers, and a pair of boots. Strife dressed himself hurriedly, and it was only when he got to stuffing his feet into the boots that he noticed something amiss.

He looked up at Parvis.

"These ain't your boots," he said.

"No, they ain't. Do you wanna talk about it, or do you wanna make sure Lomadia ain't dead?"

Strife made a frustrated noise and finished putting the boots on. The two of them headed out into the night, their shoulders almost touching, the snow squeaking under their feet.

"This ain't gonna look good," Parvis said at last, the words clouding the air in front of his face. "Us knockin' on her door in the middle of the night. 'Specially if she's dead."

"Don't care," Strife replied.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm tellin' you, folks're gonna be suspicious. They're gonna be scared. They ain't gonna wanna talk to us."

He snorted in a puff of vapor. "So what's new?" he said dryly.

"You can only push people so far 'fore they start takin' the law into their own hands, Sheriff."

"Don't I know it."

There was a long pause. Only the sound of their footfalls warded off a cold and total silence.

"It's Nano, ain't it," Parvis said.

"If I had to guess," said Strife. "Oughtta find her anyways."

Houses passed, silhouettes in the moonlight.

"She's gonna come after you," Parvis said. "If it is her."

"Hm," said Strife.

They reached Lomadia's house a few silent minutes later. Parvis knocked on the door, rapping his knuckles sharply against the wood.

The cold prickled at Strife's skin, needling through his clothes. He shivered and stamped his feet, trying to un-numb his toes.

Parvis fidgeted, then turned to look at him.

"Open it," said Strife, gesturing to the door.

Parvis took a deep breath, and steadied himself, and opened the door.

"Miss Lomadia?" he called, craning his neck to look inside. Strife saw him gulp before he looked over his shoulder again. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed. "It's cold in there."

Strife joined him on the doorstep. He saw a match flare to life in a window next door, growing to the steady glow of a candle. He tapped Parvis on the shoulder and pointed.

"Go see who that is, and then bring 'em over here so's they can verify she was dead when we came in."

"We don't _know_ she's dead, Sheriff," Parvis said.

"Parvis," he warned.

Parvis darted off down the street. Strife waited on the doorstep, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the coat. He looked at the sky, and the glowing white snow, and the gaping doorway, and his boots.

It was with a slow, stupid sort of dread that he realized he recognized them. They were Ridge's.

He wished he had something to drink, even just a flask of whiskey, just to keep off the cold.

Parvis came back, moving at a brisk walk. Behind him, in slippers and dressing gown and tasseled cap, carrying a candle, was Mr. Benevolence Xephos.

"Oh, _hell,"_ Strife said, rolling his eyes.

"Sheriff," he said as he arrived on the threshold, his voice as crisp and cold as the snow on the ground. "Your deputy tells me you suspect Miss Lomadia may be . . . unwell. Certainly less well for being awoken in the middle of the night by a pair of . . . of vagabonds."

Strife blanked him entirely and turned to the open door.

"Stay out here, Parvis," he said.

"But—" Parvis began. Strife glared at him, and he buttoned his lips.

Strife stepped inside, feeling the threshold like a physical barrier, like a membrane that had held back the darkness. He turned his head a fraction and saw Mr. Xephos inch through the doorway, cupping the flame of his candle to dampen its flickering.

"I must say I object most strenuously to this course of action," Mr. Xephos whispered. "Breaking into a lady's house in the darkest hours of the night. It's simply uncouth."

"Shut up," Strife said. There was a foul smell in the air, though he couldn't place it. He peered in the kitchen doorway. It was too dark inside to see anything of consequence.

"No, sir, I will _not_ shut up," Mr. Xephos hissed. "Were it not for the possibility of foul play, I'd—why I'd—"

"Report me to the authorities?" Strife guessed.

"I'd thrash you soundly!" he said.

They'd reached what Strife could only assume was the bedroom door. It was the only one closed. The smell was stronger now, sharp and sour. Strife cocked his head at the door.

"You first," he said, and was gratified to see Mr. Xephos go pale.

 _"Me?_ Why?"

"You got the light."

"I—well I—" he sputtered. He pulled himself together and lifted his chin. "Very well, sir. Step aside."

Strife took a half step back. Mr. Xephos edged over to the door and tapped it gently with two knuckles.

"Miss Lomadia?" he called, his voice reedy. "Terribly sorry, I don't mean to disturb you at such an unnatural hour, but there's been a bit of trouble. . . ."

Something inside rustled. Strife's heart skipped a beat. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Either Lomadia was still alive, or there was someone else in the room—and that smell was burrowing into his sinuses, sickening him, setting his teeth on edge.

He somehow doubted Lomadia was still alive.

"Er, Miss Lomadia?" Mr. Xephos called again. Again the rustle, and a _click-click_ as of fingernails drumming against wood.

"Go on," Strife prompted.

Mr. Xephos reached out a trembling hand and opened the door. Strife saw what was inside at the same time as Mr. Xephos did, in the instant before he dropped the candle and plunged them both into darkness.

The body on the bed. The disheveled blonde hair. The blood and tissue and sinew. The thin white patina of bird droppings on the floor. The huge white owl, eyes gleaming, claws and talons stained with blood. The medicine bottle, overturned on the floor.

Pitch darkness as the candle fell from Mr. Xephos's hand.

Strife never heard the bird take wing. He felt it brush past his head in the dark, and heard Parvis cry out as it swept through the open front door. He put his back against the wall and tried to keep from throwing up, a task Mr. Xephos was failing to accomplish.

"Shit," he hissed.

 


	5. Testimonial Pictures

"If I had to take a guess," Mr. Xephos said, still pale and waxen, "I would presuppose arsenic. It leaves a more . . . composed corpse than most other poisons. Now, of course, with Miss . . . with Miss Lomadia, it is difficult to tell. . . ."

He pressed his knuckles to his lips and looked away. There were deep bags under his eyes after a sleepless night.

"Yeah," said Strife. He was sure he looked no better.

"But the trouble is, of course, it would require a substantial dose to actually, er, kill," Mr. Xephos went on.

"Doc was a drunk," said Parvis. "He prob'ly drank half that bottle all at once. And I guess there was plenty of space in Miss Lomadia's medicine bottles."

The three of them were gathered around Strife's desk, speaking by candlelight, as dawn was only just now kissing the horizon. They'd built up the fire until it roared, but it was still chilly in the office.

"I don't suppose—" Mr. Xephos began, but then broke off.

"What?" said Strife.

"Well, it's just that, I knew she was ill, of course, I only wondered—if perhaps it was a stomach illness? The effects of arsenic poisoning can often take the appearance of an illness of the stomach. The . . . the poisoning may in fact have been a . . . shall we say a _long-term arrangement?"_

"Don't think so," said Parvis. "Heard she had a cough. Then again, might be somebody didn't think I oughtta know too much, or else they was just makin' shit up. Happens like that sometimes."

"Ah," said Mr. Xephos. "Perhaps a . . . a crime of opportunity, then."

"No," said Strife, glaring at his clasped hands. "No, it wasn't, neither. She had to know Lomadia was sick, for one. She had to get at the bottle somehow. She had to get the poison from somewhere. She had to stay outta sight long enough to kill both of 'em without nobody seein' her, elsewise they'd've handed her back to her daddy straight away." He shook his head. "No. Helluva lot of plannin' went into this."

Mr. Xephos arched a brow. "You seem to know your killer's identity already. Is there, perhaps, some information to which I'm not privy?"

"Plenty," said Strife.

"It's Nano who killed 'em," Parvis said. "Nobody else had reason to."

"Oh, and she did, did she? As far as _I_ recall, no one's so much as glimpsed her in town for several months. Mr. Turps has declared a reward for anyone who secures her safe return. Please correct me if I'm wrong, sirs, but how could she have committed the crimes without being here?"

"Like I said," Strife said, "helluva lot of plannin'. Can't everybody be watchin' all the time."

"Gentlemen," Mr. Xephos said, "in my experience, a motive is a very poor clue to a murder."

"I don't give a damn about your experience," Strife snapped. "Who's the goddamn sheriff in this room, you or me?"

"One could argue for neither," he said dryly.

Strife's body locked up as he resisted the impulse to beat Mr. Xephos's face into a soft pulp. He forced himself to breathe, to sigh out a little of the steam from his overheated boilers.

"Sheriff's got a point," Parvis mentioned. "Of everybody in this room, you got the least experience with actual killers."

Mr. Xephos was eyeing Strife much as a person would size up a rabid dog on a frayed leash.

"Er, quite," he said. "Still, I find it objectionable that an innocent woman should be so viciously accused on so little evidence. Anyone might have done the deed. Simply because hers is the only motive you know of does not necessitate that it is the _only_ one that exists."

"You got any better ideas?" Strife growled.

Mr. Xephos fidgeted. "Not as such," he admitted. "Not _yet._ I daresay I shall come up with something."

The three lapsed into silence. It was Parvis who broke it.

"Arsenic," he said. "Where's a person get somethin' like that, anyways?"

"Nearly anywhere," Mr. Xephos answered. "It's mostly used to exterminate vermin."

"Rat poison," said Strife.

"Among others, yes," said Mr. Xephos, ruffled. "I know for a fact that Mr. Littlewood sells it in his general store. I myself own a box. I daresay most people do."

Strife raised his head. He looked at Parvis and met his eyes. He raised his eyebrows.

"It was Littlewood who found Doc," Parvis said, answering Strife's unasked question.

"Aha! You see?" said Mr. Xephos, sitting back and folding his arms. "Already an equally likely suspect."

"Shut up," Strife said, rolling his eyes. "Parvis, what time's his store open?"

"Eight or so? If we all go home and get dressed proper it'll be open by the time we're done."

"Both," Strife corrected. "We _both."_ He jerked a thumb at Mr. Xephos and said, _"He_ ain't comin'."

"Is that so?" said Mr. Xephos. "Why? Concerned I'll interfere with your—your witch-hunt?"

"I'm concerned," Strife said, gritting his teeth, "that I'm gonna _shoot_ you before noon."

Mr. Xephos's face went white. There was a time when that would have been an idle threat; that time had passed, and they both knew it.

"No you ain't," Parvis said, as though it was a matter of course and Strife was simply being obstinate. "Mr. Xephos, I don't see that there's much else you can do to help us. Unless there's some way you can figger out whether it really was rat poison or not, in which case I think you better do that while the sheriff and me talk to some folks."

Mr. Xephos frowned and bit his lip. His eyes kept flicking to Strife, though he was clearly attempting to look nonchalant.

"Perhaps," he said. "I believe there is a test that can be done—developed a few decades ago, it seems fairly robust—I would have to look through my papers, perhaps visit with Harry back in New Haven—"

Strife leaned over to Parvis and spoke out of the corner of his mouth while Mr. Xephos waffled on.

"This necessary?" he asked.

"Gets him outta our hair for a couple weeks, doesn't it?" Parvis responded, just as quietly.

"You sneaky sonnuva bitch," Strife said, approving.

"—So, yes, I believe so, but it would likely take some time," Mr. Xephos concluded. "Do you . . . think it would be helpful?"

"Sure," said Strife.

"Def'nitely," said Parvis. "On account of, if it wasn't ars'nic, then it was somethin' else, and us lookin' into folks who've been buyin' rat poison ain't gonna get us nowhere."

"Oh," said Mr. Xephos. "Oh, yes, of course! Yes. That's a fair approach. Much better than this . . . conviction your associate has about Miss Nano."

_"My_ conviction?" Strife said.

"Clearly Parvis has gotten past it," Mr. Xephos said. "He seems to have a rather firmer grasp of morality than you do, Sheriff."

Parvis scratched his cheek and found something interesting to look at in the far corner of the room, at a fortunate angle that left him looking at neither Strife nor Mr. Xephos. His face remained perfectly composed. Strife stared at him until a faint blush rose to his cheeks.

"Seems that way," Strife said, turning his attention back to Mr. Xephos.

There was a pregnant pause. Parvis cleared his throat, still not looking at either of them.

_"Well,"_ said Mr. Xephos, slapping his knees and levering himself to his feet. "I believe I shall take my leave of you, then. As soon as I'm sure of my methods, I'll contact you concerning testing the alcohol and the medicine, shall I?"

"Not the bodies?" Strife said, and was pleased to see Mr. Xephos turn a delicate shade of green.

"No," he said, _"not_ the bodies. I believe the respective bottles will suffice. Gentlemen."

And he turned and walked from the room, the effect rather ruined by the shuffling of his slippered feet on the floor.

When the door had closed behind him, Strife said, very quietly, "Morality."

"We'd better get home and get dressed—" Parvis began, talking fast, getting to his feet.

"You unloaded the whole damn magazine into a crowd of the bastards," Strife said, his tone unchanged.

"Yeah, but I didn't _hit_ nobody," Parvis retorted. "Folks don't remember who was doin' the shootin' if nobody gets hit."

"Know that from experience?"

"Yes," he said sharply. "Now get up and go get dressed. Ridge is gonna skin me alive if he wakes up and all his clothes're gone."

Strife froze. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Parvis.

"He's _at_ your place," he said, as though each word was a round he was loading into a gun.

"Barefoot and without a coat," Parvis confirmed, although he was noticeably red. "And since I'd prefer to keep my hide _on_ me, I'd 'preciate it if you'd go put on your _own_ clothes so's I can put his back before he wakes up."

Strife's jaw clenched, but he said nothing; what could he say, after all? It had become abundantly clear that all Ridge's jabs about getting Parvis into bed had been anything but facetious. It wasn't as though it was unexpected. Parvis had never really cared about him, after all. It wasn't as though Strife had any claim to him.

It wasn't as though Strife hadn't _also_ shared a bed with Ridge. He really had no room to criticize.

"Fine," he grunted, hauling himself upright and heading for the door. "Meet you at Littlewood's. Fifteen minutes."

"Sheriff," Parvis said, and something in his tone arrested Strife's steps, made him stop and wait.

Parvis came to stand in front of him, and put a hand on his cheek, and kept his eyes lowered. Strife's heart went straight into his throat and stuck there.

"It don't have to be like this," Parvis said, scarcely audible.

"What don't?" Strife asked.

Parvis shrugged. "This. Us. You and me and him." He looked up, and meeting his gaze sent a spark skittering down Strife's spine.

"Oh?" he said, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He was holding eye-contact, and with every passing second, Strife felt himself tipping over a precipice, gravitationally moved to lean down and kiss him.

"Yeah," said Parvis, the corner of his mouth turning up, flashing teeth. "It don't have to be one or the other, Sheriff. Ain't no reason I'd have to choose."

Something in Strife was still boiling, and it frothed and spilled over at that. Strife's heart dropped back into his chest, hard as a rock.

"Parvis," he said coldly, "you done made your choice six months ago."

Parvis's eyes went wide, and his face slackened. Strife put a hand on his chest and shoved him aside, then continued on his way to the door.

"Sheriff—" he began.

"Fifteen minutes, Deputy," Strife said, pulling the door open and letting in a burst of cold. "You better be there."

After a moment of stunned silence, Parvis simply said, "Yes, sir."

* * *

 

Littlewood was a fat, cherubic sort of a man, flax-haired and ruddy-cheeked. He faked a smile when Strife entered his shop, and paused in his stocking of the shelves to turn his full attention to him.

"Mornin', Sheriff," he said. His voice was bright, but there was a nervous edge to it. "What can I do ya for?"

Strife walked up to the counter and leaned an elbow on it. He spent a moment letting his eyes rove over the shelves.

"Rat poison," he said at last.

"Oh?" said Littlewood. There was sweat beading on his face. "Uh, yessir, we can do that. Havin' uh . . . havin' some trouble with vermin, sir?"

"Yep," said Strife.

Littlewood swallowed, his eyes darting, perhaps waiting for Strife to say more.

Strife said no more.

"Uh," said Littlewood, "you got it, Sheriff, sir, comin' right up!"

He turned, hunted through his shelves, and bustled off into a back room. He returned with a step-stool and took a box down from the top shelf. There was a skull and crossbones printed on the box, and the single word, POISON.

Littlewood placed the box on the counter. Strife grabbed his wrist, quick as a snake. Littlewood jumped and tried to pull away, but Strife only tightened his grip. Littlewood kept smiling, but his eyes were wide and wild.

"Who else," Strife said, speaking slowly and clearly, "has been buyin' rat poison?"

"S-sir?" Littlewood stammered. He'd stopped trying to free himself from Strife's grip. His skin was clammy.

"Who else," he repeated, "has been buyin' rat poison, Mr. Littlewood?"

"Uh . . . uh, well, uh, sir, I could look it up in my book, if—if you'd let go of me, sir, I could do that, sir."

Strife tightened his grip again. Littlewood flinched, his smile widened.

"Mr. Littlewood," Strife said, "do you know that Doc Lalna and Miss Lomadia were both killed with rat poison?"

Littlewood's face went slack with horror. "Miss—Miss Lomadia? Wh-when? Oh, God, how? Who— _killed,_ sir? _Killed?_ Miss Lomadia?"

Strife let go of his wrist. The steel in his bones went soft, and he hung his head.

"Can't say," he said. "Few days ago. Sure you didn't do it now, though."

"I—sir? What . . . what's happenin'?"

"My deputy'll be along in a few minutes," Strife said. "He'll explain."

Littlewood went even paler than before.

"Not that deputy," Strife assured him; but he was forced to add, in the interest of honesty, "Prob'ly."

"I'll just . . . I'll just get my ledger, sir, if that's all right?" Littlewood said, his voice strained.

"I think you better," Strife answered.

Littlewood ducked under the counter. He came up with a thick, square book and dropped it on the counter with a heavy _thump._ The box of rat poison fell over. Both men stared at it.

"I should uh . . . put that away," said Littlewood. Strife grunted an agreement and Littlewood picked the box up with his thumb and forefinger.

While he was finagling it back into place on its shelf, the bell over the door jingled. Strife looked over his shoulder and saw Parvis pause to take in the scene.

"Thought you was gonna wait for me, Sheriff," he remarked.

"You thought wrong," Strife returned. "Mr. Littlewood here was just showin' me his ledger."

"More a—more a book of receipts, sir, but ledger's shorter to say," Littlewood said, returning from the ladder.

"Wouldn't happen to have Miss Nano in there, would you?" Parvis asked dryly.

Littlewood smiled. His eyes flicked to the wall of shelves.

"Wouldn't reckon so, sir," he said. "But I got plenty more ledgers in the back, sir, and she might well be in one of them, if you care to look."

"Not yet," said Strife.

"Just have a look an' see who's bought them any rat poison in the past—month or so, Sheriff?" Parvis said, turning to Strife for the question.

"Should do," he said.

"Yessir, I'll have a look," said Littlewood. He pulled a pair of spectacles from his shirt pocket and settled them on his nose, licked his fingers, and delicately opened the ledger. Strife took Parvis by the arm and led him a short distance away.

"He didn't do it," he said.

Parvis raised his eyebrows. "'Course he didn't, Sheriff."

"He didn't know Lomadia was dead, for one."

"Of _course_ he didn't, Sheriff."

Strife bristled. "'Scuse me for bein' thorough, Parvis. You can explain to the man what happened to Lomadia."

"Nope. He can get it off the rumor mill like everybody else."

"Right now, Parvis, he _is_ the rumor mill."

Parvis made a face and sighed. "Fine," he said.

Behind them, Littlewood coughed delicately. They turned to face him. He was smiling again, and gulped when their attention landed on him.

"Uh, well," he said. "Uh, sirs. In the past month, sir, only three folks've come in for, uh, for rat poison. Sirs."

"Good," said Parvis. "Short list. Who?"

"W-well," said Littlewood, his eyes darting. "Well, uh, sirs, there's Mr. Sips, uh, as per regular, uh, and then there's . . . well. . . ."

"Spit it out, man," Strife said.

Littlewood's nervous smile cranked up to full. He took his spectacles off, polished them on his shirt, and settled them back on his nose. He looked down at the ledger, tapping it with his index finger.

"The uh . . . the other two, sir, uh, within a couple days of each other, sir . . . it was Doc and Lomadia, sir."

Strife shut his eyes and breathed deeply.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," Parvis said.

 


	6. If You Can

Ridge let out a low whistle and sat back in his seat. He grinned.

"Well, ain't that just one helluva pickle," he said. "Either they killed themselves, and you don't get to arrest nobody, or they killed each other, and you _still_ don't get to arrest nobody. S'pose you could string up the corpses, though."

"You ain't helpin'," Parvis told him. He was sitting on his desk, one foot on the floor, his other leg kicking idly.

"Helpin' with _what,_ Parvis? Ain't nothin' to help with, apart from gettin' the sheriff drunk."

_"Don't,"_ Parvis snapped, his fists clenching. "Don't even joke."

"Well, Parvis," Ridge said, eyeing him, "at least the sheriff don't steal my damn clothes, despite bein' a drunk."

"It was an emergency," Parvis said.

"It was damn discourteous, Parvis," Ridge replied. "How'd you like it if I declare an emergency and start takin' _your_ clothes? Naw, don't answer that, it's contrary to my point."

With the toe of his boot, Strife rattled the bottom drawer on his desk. Lazily, Ridge looked over at him.

"You got somethin' you wanna say, Sheriff?" he inquired.

"Not yet," Strife answered.

"Aw, hell, that's right," Ridge said. "You been with Parvis all damn night, you must be stone-cold sober by now. Damn shame, ain't it."

"No," said Parvis.

"He don't do nothin' anyways. It ain't like he's gonna be impaired. Ain't nothin' to impair."

"We got _work_ to do, Ridge," Parvis said.

_"Work?"_ Ridge said, raising an eyebrow. _"Work,_ Parvis? You know damn well I ain't never worked a day in my life, I don't plan to start just now. Whole point of this operation is to spend as little time workin' as possible. _Work._ You been a lawman too long."

Parvis ground his teeth. "Two people are dead, Ridge," he said.

"So?" Ridge asked. "Don't see that's got anythin' to do with me."

"Then stay outta the way," Parvis retorted. "And quit gettin' the sheriff drunk, 'cause _he's_ got work to do."

Ridge got up out of his chair and oozed over to Parvis, putting his hands on the other man's thighs and leaning in close.

"How far outta the way you want me, Parvis?" he purred.

Strife fought down the urge to vomit. Lip curling, he rattled his desk drawer again.

"I'm sure you got the combination to the safe, Sheriff," Ridge remarked, studying Parvis as though planning the best way to eat him. "Take you out some money and buy your own damn liquor for once."

Ridge leaned in and kissed Parvis's neck, pressing their hips together. Parvis put a hand on his chest and pushed him back.

"Ridge, quit—" he whined.

Ridge grabbed his wrist and slammed his hand down on the table so hard it knocked over Parvis's tin can of pencils. Parvis yelped in pain.

Strife was on his feet so fast it took his eyes half a second to catch up. By the time he could see straight, he was looking down the barrel of his gun at the back of Ridge's head, glaring through a fine red mist.

"Get your goddamn hands off him," he growled.

Ridge had gone still. His head cocked to the side.

"Gonna shoot me, Sheriff?" he inquired.

"Yes," said Strife.

"You shoot me from there, you're gonna kill Parvis, too. Messy-like, I'd think."

"Don't think so. Your head's thick enough."

"Sheriff," Parvis said. "Put it down."

"Once he gets his goddamn hands off you."

"You roped yourself a goddamn _gentleman,_ Parvis," Ridge noted. "But he ain't gonna shoot me, neither."

"You wanna fuckin' _bet?"_ Strife snarled.

"Sheriff, put it _down,"_ Parvis insisted. "Even if it _don't_ kill me, I'm gonna end up with a face full of splinters."

"Wouldn't that be a damn shame," Ridge said. He kissed Parvis on the mouth. Strife's blood boiled.

Parvis shoved Ridge off with his free hand.

"Damn fool!" he spat. "You _tryin'_ to get us killed?"

"He ain't gonna shoot me, Parvis," Ridge said. "Matter of fact, he's just gonna stand there and watch while I fuck you over this sorry excuse for a desk."

Strife stormed across the room, spun Ridge around by his shoulder, and struck him in the jaw with the butt of his pistol. Ridge went sprawling, and Strife took aim at his head.

A shot cracked out, and Strife's left ear went white-hot with pain. He ducked and clapped a hand to his ear as blood began to pour from the wound. Parvis cursed loudly. Someone took Strife's gun from his hand.

"That," Ridge said, in a low and twisted voice, "was a goddamn _warning,_ Strife. You hit me again, the next bullet's goin' through your eye."

_"Shit, shit, shit,"_ Strife was repeating under his breath. The bullet had torn a chunk out of the shell of his ear, and the wound burned and stung.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" Parvis demanded.

"What?" said Ridge. "You think I ain't done enough? He ain't knocked any teeth out, Parvis, so I'm goin' easy on him."

"Get the fuck out."

"You wanna say that again, Parvis?"

_"Get. The fuck. Out."_

Through watering eyes, Strife watched as Ridge picked himself up and dusted himself off. He was unsteady on his feet, and there was a dark red mark on his jaw where Strife had hit him. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and holstered his gun.

"Just 'cause you asked so nicely," he said to Parvis, and pecked him on the cheek. With a jaunty wave at Strife, he sauntered out of the office, snagging his coat on the way out.

"God damn idiot," Parvis muttered, hurrying to Strife's side. He took Strife's wrists in his hands. "Let me see it."

"Bleedin' like a sonnuva bitch," Strife said, keeping his hands pressed firmly to the wound.

Parvis tugged on his wrists. "Let me _see,_ Sheriff."

Reluctantly, Strife pulled his hands away. Blood rolled down the side of his face and onto his neck. Parvis hissed in a breath through his teeth.

"Christ," he said. "All right, it ain't that bad, I'm gonna get you somethin' to stop the bleedin'."

Strife put his hands back over the wound and stood awkwardly while Parvis rooted around in his desk. Eventually, Parvis clicked his teeth and untied the bandanna from around his neck, wadding it up in a ball and bringing it to Strife.

"Just hold that on it 'til it stops bleedin' all over you," Parvis said.

Strife accepted the bandanna and pressed it to his bleeding ear, hissing at the pain. He tottered back to his desk and sat down. Parvis followed him over and leaned a hip against his desk, folding his arms.

"That was a damn stupid thing you did," he said.

"You're welcome," Strife snapped.

"I ain't say I wasn't grateful," Parvis said softly. "But it _was_ damn stupid."

Strife grunted. After a moment's pause, he asked, "He do that often?"

"What, shoot folks' ears off? Nah, gen'rally he just kills 'em. I think he likes you."

"Ain't what I meant."

Parvis looked away and swallowed.

"Time to time," he said.

"How come _you_ ain't shot him yet?" Strife asked.

He shrugged. "He's my partner, Sheriff. Without him, I got nothin'. It's worth a couple bad days. It's gotta be."

Strife thought long and hard about his next words before he spoke them.

"You got me," he said.

Parvis looked at him, frowning.

"Thought you said you didn't give a damn about me," he said.

"'Cause I'm full of shit," Strife mumbled.

"Come again?"

"Said I don't," he declared. "But I give a damn about my deputy, and the job gives a damn about you, and at least some folks in this town give a damn about you."

"Once," said Parvis. "Once, they did. Like you. Everybody gives a damn about their deputy. Don't nobody care about an outlaw, though."

"Ain't no reason you can't quit bein' an outlaw."

"Tell that to the eight folks I put in the ground," Parvis said coldly. "Tell it to Kirin. There ain't no goin' back, Sheriff. There ain't no forgettin'."

Strife ducked his head. He cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the prickling in his sinuses.

"Didn't mean to kill him," he said.

Parvis sighed. "I know, Sheriff. I seen Ridge pull that stunt with two other poor sons of bitches before you."

Strife's head snapped up, sending needles of pain stabbing into his ear.

"Then why ain't you _stop him?"_ he demanded.

"'Cause Kirin was gonna shoot you," Parvis said. "And if you hadn't've killed him, he'd've killed you for sure, and Ridge, too. And me, afterwards." He mimed tugging a rope tight around his neck.

"So you thought you'd just _let_ me murder an innocent man?" Strife asked, his teeth clenched.

"Outlaw," Parvis reminded him, waving. "S'pose you'd rather we was all dead?"

Strife didn't answer. Parvis sighed again and shook his head.

"I'm gonna run down to the general store and get some gauze or somethin' to wrap up that ear. Don't go nowhere while I'm gone," he said.

Again, he didn't reply, and in the end Parvis left without saying anything else.

* * *

 

Halfway down the bottle of gin, his ear had finally stopped hurting. Just the sight of the gauze plastered over the side of Strife's head had convinced Ravs to sell to him, and now Strife was almost glad of the injury. He was sitting under his desk, the bottle between his legs, head tilted back against the cold wood. Ridge hadn't come back that afternoon, and Parvis had eventually gone home.

His stomach twinged, and he shifted his position. He couldn't quite recall the last time he'd eaten—long before he'd started drinking, anyway. Absently, he took another swig of the gin. The bottle clacked against the underside of the desk and gin spilled out the corner of Strife's mouth and onto his collar. He toppled forward, wiping at the spill, and then glared at the bottle.

"Damn it," he said, accusing.

A minute of fumbling around on hands and knees led him to the bottle's cork, which he stuffed back in before hiding the bottle in the bottom drawer of Ridge's desk. It seemed an ingenious plan—Parvis certainly wouldn't think to look there, and if he did, he certainly wouldn't go around pouring out what appeared to be Ridge's liquor. He was so pleased with himself, in fact, that he had to stuff his fingers in his mouth and giggle quietly for a minute or two.

Somehow, he managed to get upright and staggered to the door. When he pulled it open, a burst of cold struck him in the face like a sack of needles, and he slammed the door shut again almost instantly.

"Nope," he said, and tottered over to the fire. He rolled up his coat into a messy ball, dropped another log on the fire, and curled up on the floor to pass out.

Slowly, as he failed to drift off to sleep, he became aware that something was wrong. The little twinge in his stomach was becoming a cramp, and there was a deep tension in his muscles that even the drink had not managed to wash away. Addled as his brain was, it took him some time to piece it together, and by the time he did, he was shaking.

The gin was poisoned.

Strife staggered to his feet, dragging his coat up with him. He was shaking so badly that he could hardly put the coat on, but he felt it was critical to be wearing it, lest he freeze to death before the poison killed him. The cold air struck him again as he shoved his way out the door, and the snow squeaked and crunched under his unsteady feet as he stumbled through the town. At one point, he fell to his knees and threw up until his eyes watered. The tears froze to his face, and he forced himself to get up and move on.

Mr. Xephos's door was not locked. Strife toppled over and fell on the floor. From deeper in the house, he heard a faint cry of alarm.

Someone hurried past him and shut the door. A gentle hand fluttered down to land on his back.

"Good grief," said Mr. Xephos.

"'M poisoned," Strife mumbled. "Poison th'gin."

Mr. Xephos was silent for a moment, then grabbed Strife under the arms and hoisted him upright.

"Right," he said. "The more you can get out of you, the better. I shall find you a bucket, kindly do not vomit on my floor before I can supply it to you. We're relocating to my guest bedroom, where the smell shall bother me the least."

Mr. Xephos helped him stumble to the back of the house, then set him on the floor next to the bed. Strife only just managed to swallow back his nausea until Mr. Xephos returned with a large tin bucket.

Some time passed; it was difficult to tell how much. Mr. Xephos stayed in the room with him, tutting quietly and murmuring soft consolations in between Strife's bouts of violent retching. Eventually, however, Strife sat back and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, spent.

"'M I dyin'?" he asked hoarsely.

"In my entirely unprofessional opinion?" Mr. Xephos said. "No more than most of us, Mr. Strife."

Strife glared at him, or at least one of the three blurry images of him that swam in his vision.

"Whazzat s'posed to mean?"

Pursing his lips, Mr. Xephos folded his arms and rested his ankle on his knee.

"How much alcohol, precisely, have you imbibed this evening?" he inquired.

"Don' start preachin' at me," Strife warned.

"Mr. Strife," Mr. Xephos said, leaning forward and fixing him with a penetrating gaze, "you have just arrived at my door in the middle of the night in considerable distress. You have just spent the preceding quarter of an hour vomiting copiously in my guest bedroom. You have, in fact, called upon me to save your life. If you wish that I should _withdraw_ this service I have so kindly offered to you, I will merrily throw you out into the snow without so much as batting an eye. How much, precisely, have you imbibed this evening?"

Strife fumed for a moment before answering, "Half bottle."

Mr. Xephos nodded. "Then let me be the first to inform you of the good news, Mr. Strife. The only poison you are likely to have encountered is the one you have willingly consumed."

"Bullshit," said Strife. "Naw, bullshit."

"I have searched my library," Mr. Xephos said, "and I found that, indeed, I have the book on arsenic as a poison. Mortality occurs rapidly after an acute dosage. Within hours, Mr. Strife. If you had been poisoned with arsenic, you would not at this moment be capable of sitting upright, and might in fact already have _expired."_

Angrily, Strife gestured to the stinking tin bucket. "So why all'at shit?" he demanded.

Mr. Xephos shrugged. "There are a vast variety of poisons, Mr. Strife. A death caused by alcohol is no less permanent than one caused by arsenic." He paused, then added, "Also, it's not _impossible_ that Dr. Lalna and Miss Lomadia were not in fact poisoned with arsenic, in which case all my recently acquired knowledge on signs and symptoms of arsenic poisoning would, in fact, be quite irrelevant. I do hope you have the courtesy not to die of any other sort of poisoning on my floor, Mr. Strife. It would complicate things most terribly."

"Things?" Strife asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes," said Mr. Xephos. "Namely, it would make a very awkward affair of your imminent arrest."

 


	7. Dance With Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caution: discussion of dongers

Strife stared at Mr. Xephos, blankly uncomprehending. Mr. Xephos raised his eyebrows and tipped his head, as though waiting for a response.

"You ain't a lawman," Strife slurred eventually.

"An astute observation," Mr. Xephos said. "But I'm afraid I have been compiling a rather meticulous record of your activities these past six months. And your deputies', as well, but that's somewhat less relevant, although I'm absolutely certain Mr. Ridge's so-called _pardon_ is, in fact, counterfeit. Nonetheless, I have obtained signed statements from no less than seventeen eyewitnesses detailing the circumstances of Mr. Kirin's death. Your subsequent negligence, and Mr. Ridge's rampant extortion of the populace, have also been thoroughly documented."

Strife held up a hand, halting the flow of words from Mr. Xephos's mouth. Then he turned and threw up into the bucket again.

"I'm afraid I've already sent it off with the post," Mr. Xephos went on softly. "With the railroad in place, the entire manuscript will likely arrive in Washington before the end of the week. I imagine it shall take the bureaucrats some small amount of time to muscle their brains through it all, but dear Steadfast has promised me he will expedite the process as much as he can. He's my brother, you see, and rather more relevantly, a United States Marshal. I am terribly sorry, Mr. Strife, but I believe that as of this Wednesday next you shall be a wanted man."

"Why?" he croaked. His throat was burning with acid and the taste of bile was thick on his tongue.

"Because, sir, you are a murderer," Mr. Xephos answered.

Strife shook his head. "Why're you . . . _tellin'_ me?"

Sighing, Mr. Xephos rubbed an eyebrow with two fingertips. "Mr. Strife, you must understand that I am in a rather precarious position. I have been bankrupting myself for the sake of Mr. Ridge's silence, and I suspect that once the Marshals arrive, he will no longer feel inclined to accept my payments and will, in fact, default on his services in retaliation for my effectively ending his career, and quite possibly his life. If you would have the courtesy to simply _flee_ in advance of the Marshals, taking your deputies along with you, perhaps I could avoid being lynched in the town square. It would be a somewhat preferable outcome."

Strife recoiled. "The hell've _you_ done?" he asked.

A faint smile curled Mr. Xephos's thin lips. "In the main part," he said, "Honeydew."

This took a moment to sink in.

"Oh," said Strife.

"Indeed," said Mr. Xephos. "An unfortunate limitation of our time, imposed at least in part by a cruel and unthinking religion. The great societies of Greece and Rome found it perfectly acceptable for one man to love another. I have read extensively on the matter. Believe me when I say that, could I travel backwards through time and meet Emperor Constantine, I should dearly like to gouge his eyes out with my thumbs."

"Ain't nobody gonna—gonna lynch you," Strife pointed out.

"I'm afraid they would, Mr. Strife," he said.

"But. . . ." said Strife, and hesitated.

"But," Mr. Xephos agreed. "Yes, I know. You and your deputies, the stable girls, Mr. Sips and our former mayor, rest his soul. Even the men who purport themselves as being the mouthpieces of God Himself, although in all honesty they rather rose in my esteem once I learned about their less religious activities. Mr. Strife, I have paid extensive attention to the matter, and I have concluded that there is not one single adult soul in this town who is not guilty of the same blameless crime as I."

Strife stared, his mouth hanging open, absolutely floored.

"But—" he said again.

"Mm," said Mr. Xephos. "You would think this would preclude any sort of lynching whatsoever, except perhaps of Mr. Ridge. The real _but_ of the matter, Mr. Strife, is that you and I and Mr. Ridge are the _only ones_ who know the extent of this . . . condition. At every lynching, Mr. Strife, every human in the mob is guilty of the same crime as the victim of their aggressions. Every thrown stone is a prayer, Mr. Strife, and the prayer is, _Please_ _God, don't let me be next."_

"Know that for a fact?"

Mr. Xephos's jaw clenched behind his faint smile.

"Yes," he said. "I most certainly do." He took a breath and sighed it out. "A mob is not fueled by anger, Mr. Strife. Anger is directionless. Anger is secondary. A mob runs on fear, Mr. Strife, and the greatest fear is suddenly finding oneself no longer a part of the mob."

Strife mulled this over. He set his back against the leg of the bed, because sitting upright was becoming difficult.

"S'why ain't ev'rybody killt me yet?" he asked.

"In all honesty, I haven't the foggiest idea. Something I haven't yet managed to figure out is how the blasted thing _starts._ One never seems to turn up before the mob."

Strife nodded slowly. "An' what if I don't run?"

"Then, Mr. Strife, you damn yourself, your deputies, me, and Honeydew. At a bare minimum. I think it entirely likely that Mr. Ridge will not go quietly. I think it entirely likely that he will kill several others before he is, himself, dispatched."

His head was swimming. He couldn't keep his eyes open, much less focused. He rubbed his face with his palms and worked on breathing properly. Despite having thrown up everything in his stomach, he was feeling queasy.

"The hell would I go?" he asked helplessly.

"That, I'm afraid, is not my concern, Mr. Strife," Xephos answered. "But I would suggest that you depart soon."

"Y'sure I'm not poisoned?"

"At this point? Quite."

"Mind fixin' that?"

Mr. Xephos's jaw tightened.

"Unlike you, Mr. Strife, I am not a murderer," he said sharply.

"Ain't murder if I asks you."

"If you are desperate to end your existence, Mr. Strife, I believe you are perfectly capable of doing so yourself."

He shook his head. "Can't. Tried. Can't do it."

Mr. Xephos was quiet for a long time.

"You may spend the night here, if you wish," he said at last, his voice soft. "I am . . . sorry, Mr. Strife. I am sorry it's come to this."

"Din't mean to kill him," Strife mumbled. His sinuses were prickling, threatening tears. "Nev'r meant to kill nobody."

Mr. Xephos sighed and got to his feet.

"I believe I shall return to my bed for the night," he said. "If you need me, all you need do is yell out."

Strife said nothing, and Mr. Xephos departed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Only when he had gone did Strife allow himself to cry.

* * *

 

"We're findin' Nano," Strife declared, closing the office door behind him and hanging up his hat.

"Oh, really?" said Ridge. "Y'all have fun, then."

"You're comin'," Strife told him.

"Am I?" he asked sweetly.

_"Is_ he?" Parvis said.

"Yep," said Strife, crossing to his desk.

"You mind tellin' me how you worked that one out?" Ridge asked. He had his feet up on the desk and was cleaning his gun, polishing the black and silver interior with an oiled cloth. The six bullets were lined up on the edge of his desk.

"'Cause mostly likely, Nano's with Rythian," Strife said. "And if she ain't, then at least Rythian's the last person seen her."

A wicked light came on behind Ridge's eyes. He smirked.

"Oh," he said. "Sheriff, you _do_ know me well."

"Hold up," said Parvis. "How d'you figger Nano's been with Rythian?"

"'Cause she was damn sure Rythian was gonna kill Sjin for her. It didn't happen, she kills him herself—maybe with help, maybe not. Then she runs off. Who d'you think she'd've gone runnin' to, if not Rythian? And now somebody's started killin' folks with guilty consciences—leastways, the two folks with guilty consciences that Nano knew about. Know anybody else was in that business, other'n Rythian?"

"I dunno, Sheriff," Parvis said. "Seems a li'l thin."

"You got any better ideas?" he asked.

"Naw, I think the sheriff's right," Ridge said, a nasty edge to his voice. "I think we better find these lovely ladies and let 'em know how _justice_ is gettin' on without 'em."

"Rythian ain't a lady," Strife said.

Ridge grinned. "Well, you ain't wrong."

"Sheriff, you ain't serious," Parvis said. "Rythian's _gone,_ we ain't gonna find him."

"Her," Ridge corrected.

"Quit," said Strife. "And yes, we damn well are. You really think somebody like Rythian's gonna stop killin' just 'cause they moved shop?"

"All we gotta do is look for the murders," Ridge mused. "Well damn, Sheriff, that ain't a half bad idea, after all."

"Yeah, apart from how Ridge is gonna _kill_ Rythian the moment he sets eyes on him," Parvis pointed out.

"You _definitely_ ain't wrong," Ridge said, chuckling.

Strife's jaw tightened.

"Sometimes you gotta make a sacrifice, Parvis," he said. "A murderer ain't terrible much of a sacrifice."

"Bull- _shit,"_ Parvis spat. "You fucked up everybody's goddamn lives lettin' Rythian go, and now you're just gonna set Ridge on him like it ain't no concern to you?"

"'Preciate you talkin' about me like I'm a dog while I'm in the room, Parvis," Ridge said lightly, setting down his cleaning cloth and reloading his gun. "Real flatterin'."

Parvis reddened, but stayed resolute.

"I don't like it, Sheriff. How come you wanna take Ridge, anyways?"

"You think he could keep me from goin'?" Ridge inquired, spinning the barrel of his gun.

"I think he damn well coulda kept it a secret," Parvis replied.

"Folks'll talk to Ridge," Strife said. "Won't they."

Ridge grinned. "Oh, yes sir, Sheriff, they damn well will."

Parvis stared at Strife.

"You're _blackmailin'_ the damn populace," he said flatly. _"You._ Are _blackmailin'_ the damn populace for information."

"Got a problem with that, Parvis?"

"I damn well do."

"Well then get over it," Strife ordered. "We got work to do."

* * *

 

Two days had passed, and the three of them were gathered around Strife's desk. Ridge had spread a crude map out over it, weighing down the corners with stacks of unattended paperwork.

"So here's us," he said, pointing to a little dot on the map. "And over _here_ is where we're goin'."

His finger drew a long line across the mountains to another little dot, then tapped twice.

"What's that, 'bout forty miles?" Parvis asked.

"Somethin' like that," Ridge allowed. "Takes two days to get there, on account of the terrain."

"Place got a name?" Strife asked. He hadn't had a drink in over forty-eight hours, and he was feeling it as a physical ache in his chest. It was making focusing abysmally difficult.

Ridge nodded. "Folks that settled there was so damn proud of gettin' over them mountains, they called it _Achievement City,"_ he said. "It's a shithole."

"And that's where Rythian's got off to?" Parvis asked.

"Accordin' to Sips, who's got friends over there, they been havin' a rash of murders. Wife-beaters and rapists, mainly. The occasional blameless outlaw."

"You deserved everythin' you got," Strife snapped at him.

"Same to you," Ridge replied easily. Strife's side twinged, and he laid a hand over the old stab wound, pinching his lips together.

"And Sips just _told_ you this," Parvis said, incredulous.

"Sips is like one of them newfangled vendin' machines," Ridge said. "You put money in and words come out. 'Sides, turns out Ravs's got a brother lives over there. Said the same damn thing as Sips did."

"Don't s'pose you put money in him, too," Parvis said.

Ridge grinned at him. "Ravs is like one of them pine-yatas," he said. "You beat the shit outta him and words come out."

"Piece of shit," Strife muttered, clenching his fists.

Ridge turned to him, still grinning. "Parvis here is like an oil well," he declared. "You pump him real good an' hard and—"

Parvis just managed to catch Strife before he punched Ridge's teeth in. Strife wrestled with him for a moment, seething, while Ridge laughed in his face.

"Ain't _worth_ it, Sheriff," Parvis told him, gritting his teeth.

"You don't know that," Strife retorted.

"Yes I damn well do," Parvis said.

"Oh, _yes_ he damn well does," Ridge confirmed, still laughing. "You ever wonder how I got my gold tooth, Sheriff? It's on account of Parvis knocked the real one out. An' then I broke goddamn near every bone in his stupid li'l body, didn't I, Parvis."

"Sit the fuck back down, Sheriff," Parvis said, pushing him down towards his seat.

Fuming, Strife sat back down. He was trembling with poorly suppressed rage.

"You done?" Ridge inquired. "Only I wouldn't mind beatin' the hell outta you today, Sheriff. _And_ you got another ear I could shoot off."

Strife said nothing, not trusting himself not to spit in Ridge's eye.

"All right, then," Ridge said. "Sheriff out there's a man by the name of Geoffrey. Y'all don't mind, I'll have me a crack at him first thing."

"Don't go killin' nobody else's sheriff," Parvis warned.

"They're just so damn killable, Parvis," Ridge said. "But I ain't gonna try shootin' him 'til I've tried fuckin' him. You know me."

Strife's lip curled, and he rolled his eyes.

"And what the hell're _we_ supposed to do?" Parvis asked, folding his arms.

"I don't give a shit," said Ridge. "Y'all found Rythian last time, why don'tcha just do it again? Sure she'll be real pleased to see you. _Especially_ you, Sheriff."

"Someday, Ridge," Strife said, his voice low and shivering, "I am gonna blow your goddamn brains out all over this fuckin' office."

"In front of Parvis?" Ridge asked, pressing a hand to his chest. He winked. "Goddamn, Sheriff, you are a kinky sonnuva bitch."

"Ridge, get the hell out," Parvis snapped, exasperated.

"Naw, Parvis," Ridge said, holding Strife's gaze. "I think _you_ better leave. I think I'm gonna have to fuck the contrariness outta the Sheriff before he takes it into his ornery head to shoot me. Wouldn't want you gettin' jealous."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," he said.

"Parvis," Strife said. "Go."

Parvis stared at him, looking utterly betrayed.

"Well, fuck you too, then," he said. He turned on his heel and stalked to the door, grumbling to himself as he pulled on his jacket and jammed his hat on his head. There was a burst of cold as he yanked open the door, and a faint _click_ as it closed behind him.

For eight seconds, there was silence.

Both men drew simultaneously, Strife shooting to his feet as he did so. They ended up each looking down the barrel of the other's gun, still maintaining eye-contact.

Ridge grinned.

"You gonna shoot me, Sheriff?" he inquired. "Figger you can kill me dead 'fore I can twitch my finger?"

"I am goddamn tired of you," Strife told him.

Ridge's grin widened. "So we fuckin', or what?"

"Go fuck _yourself,"_ Strife spat.

"Naw," Ridge said. "I think you'll do. How 'bout you go ahead and get on your knees, Strife, and maybe if you're real good, I'll let you wash the taste of my cock outta your mouth with that gin you hid in my desk."

Strife wrestled with himself for a good thirty seconds before he bent his elbow and pointed his gun at the ceiling. He still had not looked away from Ridge's eyes, and he saw them sparkle with amusement, with unguarded lust.

"God damn," Ridge breathed, as Strife knelt. "God _damn_ you're pretty when you're mad."

Strife said nothing, and Ridge rounded the desk and cupped Strife's jaw in his hand. He touched the barrel of his gun to Strife's lips, and the latent fury spiking Strife's blood made the sparks that scattered off the contact that much more intense.

"Changed my mind, Strife," Ridge said lazily, while Strife undid his belt. "I am damn glad I ain't killed you yet."

Strife pretended not to hear him, promised himself it would all be worth it for the gin, and got to work.

 


	8. Day Tripper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the next update won't take a Million Years. Sorry y'all :/

The town was, as Ridge had so aptly described it, a shithole.

There were maybe eight real buildings, all of them in disrepair. The saloon had sagged into itself until the doors fell off. The bank's roof was caving in. The general store had no windows, and its steps had rotted to the ground.

Nonetheless, a healthy crop of tents had sprung up around the place, and there were plenty of people coming and going between the decrepit shops. There was even, Strife noted, a sheriff's office, although no one seemed to be paying it any mind.

"Wellp," said Ridge, pushing back his hat. "This's where I leave you fine fellows and go find me a sheriff to ruin. Another one, that is."

"And how come we ain't comin' with you?" Parvis demanded.

"'Cause you'll fuck it up," Ridge answered easily. "Why don't y'all head on down to the saloon, see if you can't get the sheriff drunk enough to talk. Our sheriff, that is."

Strife grit his teeth, but said nothing.

"And what makes you think they ain't gonna shoot you on sight, huh?"

Ridge patted his breast pocket. "Got my pardon."

 _"On sight,"_ Parvis repeated.

"Y'know, Parvis, why don't you let me take care of the details and quit worryin' your pretty li'l head over every damn thing?"

"Well 'scuse me if I think you gettin' _shot_ is somethin' worth worryin' over."

"Lemme put it to you this way, Parvis: you don't get the hell outta my way, I'm gonna shoot _you,_ and then we'll see what you think's more worrisome."

Parvis ground his teeth, but said nothing more. Ridge grinned at him.

"So if y'all would excuse me, I got me a sheriff to fuck. Another one, that is."

He touched the brim of his hat and dug his heels into his horse, spurring it off into town at a jaunty trot.

"I do believe that sonnuva bitch is gonna make it outta this alive," Parvis grumbled.

"Shame," Strife muttered.

Parvis hesitated, then shook his head. "Honest to God, Sheriff, I wouldn't half blame you if you decided to up and shoot him one day."

Strife grunted. Ridge had tied off his horse and gone into the sheriff's office, and now Strife's eyes were drifting towards the saloon.

"S'pose we'd best find some place to hole up, then," Parvis sighed, shifting in his saddle.

Strife grunted again and started his own horse off towards the saloon, carefully not looking at Parvis.

"Oh, no the hell you ain't," Parvis snapped, pulling up next to him and keeping pace. He jabbed Strife in the shoulder with his finger. _"You_ ain't goin' nowhere near a drop of drink. Not damn well here, and _not_ damn well _now."_

"Fuck off, Parvis," Strife growled.

"Hell no. I ain't wranglin' both you _and_ Ridge, 'specially not if one of you's drunk of your ass, and _especially_ not if Rythian's in town."

"So go wrangle Ridge."

"What, and have him shoot my ass? Hell fuckin' no, I ain't stupid."

They were level with the saloon, and Strife reined his horse in.

"Don't you _get_ off that goddamn horse," Parvis warned.

"The hell're you gonna do about it?" Strife replied.

"I'm gonna leave you here to get your damn self killed, is what I'm gonna do."

"Fine," said Strife, and got off the horse. He could almost hear the steam rising off Parvis's head as he hitched the reins to a post.

"Hope they serve good whiskey in hell," Parvis sneered, hauling his horse around to face towards the sheriff's office.

"They ain't so far," Strife said, and walked up the steps into the saloon.

Inside, it was dim and noisy and crowded. Tobacco smoke hung thick in the air, and the bar was full. Strife forced his way through the crowd, elbowing when necessary, and managed to get the bartender's attention.

"Whiskey, tall," he said, and pointed to an empty table in the corner. "Over there."

"Yessir," the bartender said. He lifted his head and yelled through the back wall. _"Maria! Whisky, número quince!"_

A fluting voice called back, _"Sí, señor!"_

The bartender gestured to the corner table. "Go siddown, she'll get to ya."

Once again, Strife elbowed his way through the crowd and settled in at the table. It was wedged into the corner such that he could only sit with his back to the room, and there was no space for anyone else to sit at the table. He waited for five minutes, glancing over his shoulder frequently; and then another five minutes, picking at the wood grain of the table; and then another ten minutes, shoulders hunched and jaw tight.

Finally, the barmaid leaned over Strife to place his whiskey on the table, her hair swinging into his face. The familiar smell of it reached his nose just as the tip of a knife pressed into his back, just over his kidneys. Strife stiffened, his breath freezing in his throat, his skin twitching. The taste of gunmetal rose on his tongue, sharp and bitter, and the old wound in his side ached.

"You are a liar, _señor,"_ Rythian murmured in his ear.

"Need your help," Strife croaked, not daring to move.

"My _help?"_ she asked, amused. "I will gladly help you to your grave."

"Ridge's in town," said Strife. "He'll shoot you dead if he catches sight of you."

"He will not find me," she said easily. "But I will find him. Did you bring him to me as a gift? An offering of peace, _señor?_ His life for yours?"

"No," he said. "But if you feel like killin' him, I ain't gonna object."

She pressed smiling lips to his ear, and his skin burned all over.

"You will not leave this town alive," she told him softly. "I know what you have done, _señor._ This time I do not spare you."

"Gonna stab me right here in front of all these folks?" he asked gruffly, though his spine was tingling, his stomach queasy.

"Maybe," Rythian allowed. "Maybe I will bring you to my room and let you take me again. Maybe I will kill you as you spend yourself inside me."

Strife gulped and shifted his position slightly. Rythian pressed the knife harder into his back, its point digging into his flesh.

"Take a sip of your drink, _señor,"_ she directed.

He obeyed. The whiskey was cold and weak and bitter. Rythian put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his ear again.

"Where is your deputy?" she asked.

"Findin' Ridge, most likely," said Strife. "Can't stand me when I been drinkin'."

"I will leave your body to him as a gift," she mused. "Drink, _señor."_

"Mighty kind of you," Strife grumbled. He drank for longer, draining a quarter of the glass. "Sure you ain't amenable to talkin'?"

"I have been doing nothing _but_ talking, _señor._ Perhaps you wish to know if I will _listen."_

"Works," said Strife.

"Drink," she ordered. He drank. "You have until your drink is gone. Then we will leave, and you will die."

Strife took as deep a breath as he dared and let it out again.

"Nano done killed Doc Lalna and Lomadia," he said. "Poisoned 'em."

"That is not so," said Rythian. "The two poisoned each other. Drink."

Strife drank. "Good trick," he said. "Considerin' they most likely died the same night. How'd you know they poisoned each other?"

"Because Nano told them to do so. She is very clever. Drink."

Again, he obeyed. "She workin' with you?"

"She asked my help. I gave it. Drink."

He drank. The glass was nearly half-empty.

"Makes her just about a murderer," he pointed out. "Thought you didn't like murderers."

"The doctor and the nurse deserved to die," Rythian said. "A child was killed, and a killer walked free. Their deaths were justice. Drink."

Strife took another sip of his whiskey. His hands were shaking. Rythian jabbed the knife into his back, breaking the skin.

 _"More,"_ she growled. Strife took a longer drink, until the pressure from the knife abated. Only a quarter of the whiskey remained, and it was sitting uneasy in his stomach.

"She ain't gonna stop killin', Rythian," he said. "Woman's got too damn much rage in her to ever stop."

"Yes," said Rythian simply. "She is a very good student. Drink."

Strife spilled whiskey down his chin. Rythian wiped it away with her sleeve and kissed his ear for the third time.

"She ain't like you," he said, voice shaking. "She ain't doin' it for justice. She ain't gonna stick to your code or whatever the hell rules you play by. Tell me where she's at and I'll get outta your town and never look back."

"Your promises are empty, _señor,"_ Rythian said. "You have shown me so. Drink."

He drank. There was barely a fingernail's width of whiskey left at the bottom of the glass. His heart pounded in his chest, and his blood roared in his ears.

"Marshalls're comin' for me anyhow," he croaked. "You wanna stab me, or you wanna see me hanged? 'Cause it's gonna be one or the other. I'm askin' you to let me do one last piece of justice 'fore I die like an outlaw."

"You will not die like an outlaw, _señor,"_ Rythian told him sweetly. "No matter how you are killed, you will die like a dog. Drink."

"Please—" he whispered. She drove the knife sharply into his back, burying it half an inch in his flesh. He gasped and went utterly stiff, pain blooming through his back and side, fear clawing at his lungs.

 _"Drink,"_ she repeated.

Hands shaking, Strife finished his whiskey.

"Stand," Rythian commanded. Unsteady and trembling, Strife stood. Rythian kept the knife stuck into his side, and every movement made it scrape and cut at his flesh, slipping in deeper and deeper.

"You ain't gotta do this," Strife said. His hand twitched at his side, thinking of how close his gun was.

"You desired justice, _señor._ So, here she is. We will go upstairs. You will choose how you die. Walk."

He didn't move, and she shoved the knife another half-inch into his back. He took a stumbling step, and then another. She hung off of him casually, holding the knife in his back and leaving her lips against his ear. He staggered as she guided him towards the stairs at the back of the saloon, his eyes welling with tears.

"What're . . . my choices?" he asked, dizzy and delirious.

"You may die with your dignity," she answered, "or you may die a very happy man."

"Think I'll . . . take the second," he managed—not out of any desire for her, but in desperate hope that it would buy him enough time for help to arrive.

Her lips pulled into a smile against his ear, and her fingertips brushed his neck.

"I thought you would say so," she said. She added in a throaty whisper, "I _hoped_ you would say so."

"Flattered," he said faintly. They were nearly at the stairs, and his whole back was afire with pain from the knife sticking into it.

Suddenly, there was a sharp, deafening _crack!_ Rythian jerked, and something hot splattered Strife's arm. Five more shots barked out, so quick in succession that they were nearly a constant roar, and Rythian twitched like a marionette, and blood burst from her chest, and bits of bone scraped Strife's arm and needled into his back. She fell, dragging the knife with her, and Strife staggered away, crying out in pain as blood began to pour from the wound. He stumbled on until his back hit the wall.

Ridge walked through the suddenly silent bar as though it was the most normal thing in the world. His shirt was disheveled, and there were angry red marks on his neck. He blew the smoke off the muzzle of his gun and tucked it back into his holster. Smiling to himself, he rolled Rythian onto her back with his toe, then planted his foot in her ruined, bloodied chest.

"Howdy, bitch," he said brightly. "You remember me?"

Blood was seeping from the corners of Rythian's mouth, and her eyes were glassy and unfocused. With a red-toothed snarl, she swung the knife up and buried it up to the hilt in Ridge's calf. He yelped and recoiled, hopping on one foot and cursing through his teeth. He limped back over to Rythian, the knife still stuck in his leg, and kicked her repeatedly in the face. She struggled only briefly, before her body went still and the flow of her blood slowed to a crawl.

Ridge cursed again and yanked the knife out of his leg. He threw it to the floor and spat on Rythian's corpse.

"Fuckin' bitch," he hissed. He knelt next to the corpse and tore a length of cloth from her skirt, which he then wrapped around his calf. He sighed through his nose, ran a hand back through his hair, and looked up at Strife.

"Damn shame I never got to fuck her," he said, smirking. His eyes drifted back to the ruined corpse, pensive. "Though . . . hey, how long d'you figger she'll stay warm for?"

Strife's hand went to his gun. Someone caught his wrist. His head snapped around, and he saw Parvis standing next to him.

Parvis shook his head, his face grim.

"S'posed to thank me, Sheriff," Ridge mentioned, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. "Just saved your life."

"Ridge," Parvis warned tensely. Ridge turned around, frowning.

The entire bar was staring at the three of them. Many of the patrons had their hands on their guns. Their eyes were hard.

Ridge grinned and gestured to the body on the floor.

"Heard y'all was havin' a problem with somebody stabbin' folk," he announced. "So happens we had the same problem back home, came to clean up our mess."

"That so," someone growled. He got to his feet, a hulking man with arms like logs.

"Yessirree," said Ridge, touching his forelock. He gestured to his leg. "She done stabbed me right in front of y'all, ain't she? Might be someone'd wonder how come she had that ol' knife to hand."

"Shit," Parvis cursed under his breath, touching his fingertips to the blood soaking through Strife's shirt. "'Cause she had it stuck in the goddamn Sheriff, that's how come. Y'all got a goddamn doctor in this town?"

The patrons shifted uncomfortably, eyeing each other.

"Well," one said eventually. "Guess there's that Nano woman."

 


	9. Silver Hammer Man

"Howdy!" Ridge said brightly, cocking his pistol and aiming it right between Nano's eyes. She froze in the doorway of the Sheriff's office, her eyes going wide.

"Ain't you had enough?" Parvis snapped at Ridge, still pressing his hands to the wound in Strife's side.

"Oh, not by half, Parvis," he replied. "I could kill me at _least_ three more bitches today."

"Hey now," said the sheriff, a burly, surly man with a handlebar mustache you could steer a train with. He wagged a finger at Ridge. "I ain't havin' you shootin' nobody in my damn office!"

"Yuh-huh, _sure_ you ain't," said one of the deputies. He was baby-faced and muscle-bound, and was propping his feet up on the scraggly mutt that lay panting on the floor. The dog was wearing a bandana that had a deputy's star pinned to it.

"Who's the damn sheriff in this town?" the sheriff demanded, his voice cracking.

The dog barked, and the sheriff glared at it.

"Shut up, Gavin," he said.

"Well, if the li'l miss plays nice and stitches our Strife up nice and pretty, I ain't gonna be near as tempted to shoot her," Ridge said pleasantly. "And if she sees fit to tend to my leg, well damn, I might just keep my hands off her all the way up 'til she's hung."

The woman at the corner station laid her huge hands on the desk and sat forward.

"Was you plannin' somethin' different?" she asked, her voice deep and low.

Ridge grinned at her. "Aw, now I ain't mean it like that, and you know it. I get a hankerin' for physicality, I already got me _two_ sheriffs I can fuck."

Strife's hands clenched on Parvis's arm. The other sheriff went red as a tomato and grumbled into his mustache. The baby-faced deputy laughed, and so did the short, stocky one.

"Aw hell, Geoff, he's got your number, ain't he," the latter said, his face crinkled up in a smile.

"You shut the hell up, Jeremy," the sheriff snapped at him.

"How 'bout _everybody_ shut the fuck up so _our_ sheriff can stop fuckin' _bleedin'_ to death!" Parvis interrupted, his voice sharp.

"Oh, shit, forgot about him," said Jeremy.

Ridge motioned with his gun, smiling at Nano. "Come on in, miss. An' get to work."

"How 'bout you just go ahead an' shoot me?" she retorted.

 _"Ohhhh dayuuum,"_ the baby-faced deputy said, grinning.

"Jesus goddamn, Michael, don't _commentate,"_ the woman said, frowning.

"Don't tell me what the fuck to do, Jack," Michael retorted. The dog barked.

In unison, all four deputies and the sheriff snapped, _"Shut up, Gavin!"_

Leaned up against the wall, the fifth deputy finally looked up.

"How's about this," he said, his voice gentle and pleasant. "Miss Nano can just drop her bag here and I'll patch up y'all's sheriff myself. Then Miss Nano can head on out into the desert and run like hell 'til we get our horses together and get to chasin' her. I'm sure you folks got better things to do, and I'm sure Miss Nano'd appreciate the head start on freezin' to death. Besides, I'm real good at stitchin' skin together, and I ain't got the chance to do it since—well, in a good long while."

For the space of three breaths, there was dead silence in the sheriff's office.

"Jesus _Christ,_ Ryan, you are one creepy motherfucker," said Geoff, his mustache twitching.

"Yeah," Ryan sighed wistfully. "But I do it so well."

Ridge had narrowed his eyes and was looking hard at Ryan.

"Hey, don't I know you?" he said.

"Might do," said Ryan. He pushed himself off the wall and ran a hand down his ponytail. With slow, self-assured steps, he crossed the room to Nano. He held out a hand, and she passed her doctor's bag over.

Strife noted, although his senses were all fuzzy with pain, that the deputy was standing directly between Ridge and Nano, his broad frame shielding her entirely.

"How 'bout you run on, Miss Nano," he said. "We'll catch up with you presently, I s'pose."

"Go straight to hell," she spat at him.

He touched two fingers to his forehead. "Thank you, ma'am."

Nano hurried out the door, and Ridge leapt to his feet, bringing his gun up to point at the back of Ryan's head.

"Hang on just a fuckin' _second,"_ he snarled, all his joviality gone. "You ain't lettin' that bitch run, just like that?"

"First off," said Ryan, not turning around. "I don't appreciate the use of that particular word."

"What, _bitch?"_ said Ridge. "Think you oughtta be used to it by now, seein' as you're one, too."

"The _fuck_ did you just say?" Jack demanded, getting to her feet.

"I think he just called Ryan a bitch," said Jeremy, his broad face like a thunderstorm.

"Think he might be pointin' a gun at one of our deputies, too," Michael said.

"Fellas," Geoff said, his voice cracking again. "Now let's not make a fight outta this—"

"Naw, naw," said Ryan, turning around. He was wearing a smile like a bandoleer, and it was loaded. "Let's have us a fight, Big Dog. Odds are you _do_ know me from somewhere. Used to call me the Vagabond, 'fore I got outta that business."

 _"Oh, shit,"_ Parvis whispered. He'd gone paler than Strife, and the hand pressed to the stab wound dug in its fingers. "Oh, shit, Ridge, we gotta—"

"Hey now, buddy, how's about you let me finish?" Ryan said pleasantly. "'Cause soon as I'm finished talkin', I'm gonna stitch up your sheriff, but not before. 'Cause I still got me a few things to say to Big Dog here."

Ridge was still pointing his gun at Ryan's head, but his eyes had gone wide and the barrel of his gun was sketching little ovals in the air.

"Your partner sure knows me," Ryan went on. "By reputation, I imagine, 'cause I don't remember him."

"You sure we oughtta let this go on?" Jeremy whispered to Jack.

 _"You_ feel like gettin' in the way?" Jack whispered back.

The dog growled.

"Shut up, Gavin," Michael hissed at it.

Ryan, meanwhile, had walked right up to Ridge and wrapped his hand around the gun, moving it to point over his own shoulder. He was holding Ridge's gaze so firmly that Strife could just about see Ridge squirming underneath it.

"But you remember me," Ryan said. "Odds are you remember my brother, too. On account of you beat the shit outta him on your way over here."

"I ain't—" Ridge began. Ryan pressed a finger to his lips and shushed him.

"Ah-ah! Don't go interruptin', Big Dog. I intend to stitch your sheriff up, but damn, I do like sewin' skin together, and you got a mighty big gap 'tween them lips. I might take a fancy to fix that up for you."

"Jesus Christ," Geoff muttered.

"But hell, Big Dog, you done beat up my brother Ravsy," Ryan went on, still smiling. His bright blue eyes were full of a madness so thick and deep it made them glassy. "And I feel like I oughtta thank you for that, some way or other."

Ridge's hand, the one holding his gun, twitched. Ryan's smile widened by a couple molars.

"Thanks!" he said brightly, and patted Ridge on the shoulder. "I hate ol' Ravsy, he's a pain in the ass."

Ridge's jaw went slack. "I—what?"

Ryan kissed him on the cheek and slipped away from his side, crossing to Strife. He put a hand on Parvis's chest and moved him out of the way like he was nothing more than a balloon.

"All righty, there, Sheriff Strife, how's about you move your shirt outta the way, and I'll stitch you up real good," Ryan said, settling himself on Michael's desk and opening Nano's bag.

Strife's head was spinning, and his hands were clumsy, but he managed to lift up his shirt to expose the wound, peeling the bloodsoaked fabric away from his skin.

"Aw, hell, that's a pretty one," said Ryan, wiping a finger through the blood like a maid checking for dust. Absently, he stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked on it. "Don't you worry, Sheriff, we'll getcha stitched up real quick. Man, I ain't gotten to do this in _years!"_

Parvis, meanwhile, had edged around back of Ryan and was fussing over Ridge, getting him to put the gun away and patting his waxy face.

"How come—" Ridge began, his voice thin. He cleared his throat and tried again, glaring at Geoff. "How come you got _him_ as a deputy?"

"Hell, dammit, 'cause I ain't want him pointed at me!" Geoff said.

Ryan was threading one of Nano's curved needles, his tongue between his teeth. His focus seemed absolute. When he was done with that, he put the needle in his mouth and drew it back out again, then pinched the edges of Strife's wound together. Strife's skin crawled wherever he touched, even as pain radiated through his insides. The other deputies and the other sheriff continued to bicker and chatter, but Strife barely heard them. As Ryan started stitching him up, poking little shards of pain into his skin, Strife found himself talking.

"How come I ain't never heard of you?" he asked. He could taste the watery whiskey on his own breath.

"You been a lawman all your life?" Ryan replied.

"Yeah."

"Well that'd be why, then. Ain't much of anybody knew me, 'cept for other outlaws."

The needle went through his skin again, and Strife flinched.

"What'd you do?" he asked, although his stomach was sick with wondering.

A little smile curled up the corners of Ryan's mouth.

"Don't think you prob'ly wanna know, lawman," he said. "Not while I got needle and thread in you, anyhow."

"God dammit, all the shit I been through, think I deserve to know what the hell _scares_ Ridge."

Ryan was silent for three whole stitches. Strife's blood was bright red on his fingers.

"Coats," he said at last. "Used to make coats. Real nice ones."

"Coats?" said Strife.

Ryan nodded, and then grinned. "Yeah," he said. "Coats. Y'know. Outta other outlaws."

Strife's whole body froze up, his spine stiff, his skin trying its damnedest to crawl away from Ryan's hands as they stitched its torn edges back together. The whiskey was unsettled in his stomach, and he could feel it coming back up his throat.

"'Cause ain't nobody missed 'em," Ryan went on pleasantly. He glanced up at Strife's face, and Strife's blood ran cold. "Ridge knows ain't nobody gonna miss _him._ Even if he's a lawman now, or nearly. Cold winter, ain't it?"

Strife's throat had locked up. He felt like if he opened his mouth, it would just be to vomit. Ryan turned his eyes back to the wound and went on stitching it up. He was smiling to himself, like he was telling the world's best joke.

"Told you you didn't prob'ly wanna know," he said. "But boy, Sheriff Strife, I tell you what. You ever wanna take to outlawin', you let me know." His smile split wide open into a toothy grin. "You sure got the skin for it."

Strife folded over and threw up on the floor.

* * *

 

It took half an hour and a quarter of a bottle of whiskey to get Strife woozy enough to let Ryan finish stitching him up. Geoff grumbled the whole time over having to give up his hard-earned booze, and his deputies poked fun at him for it ruthlessly. Even the dog was grinning, its spotty tongue lolling out and dripping on the floor.

The moment Ryan declared that he was done patching up Strife, Parvis gathered him up and bustled him out, looking over his shoulder the whole way. Ridge went with them, his hand tight on the barrel of his gun, his shoulders tense.

"Y'all come back soon now, y'hear?" Ryan called after them as they departed.

"Don't be a dick about it," Jeremy said.

"Naw, you kiddin'? That shit was hilarious," said Michael.

"He mighta shot him," said Jack.

"It mighta served him right!" Geoff said. "Creepy sonnuva bitch."

"Love you too," said Ryan.

The dog barked.

_"Shut up, Gavin!"_

By concerted effort, Parvis and Ridge managed to get Strife up onto his horse. He was too drunk to see straight, much less sit upright, and so Parvis climbed up behind him to hold him up. They tied Parvis's horse to Ridge's, and then all three of them set off towards the hills in silence. It started snowing, and if it hadn't been for the warmth of Parvis's body against his back and the tingling heat of the whiskey in his belly, Strife would have been shaking himself to pieces.

With Ridge riding up ahead, his horse's hooves slipping and sliding on the steep ground, Parvis leaned over Strife's shoulder and kissed his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shoulda been there."

Strife shook his head. "Naw," he said.

"Yeah," said Parvis. "You wouldn'ta got stabbed if I'da been there. I just ran off on account of . . . bein' a damn idjit. An' I'm sorry."

Strife was quiet for a long time. Things were swirling in his brain, made blurry and unsteady by the alcohol, but ever so slowly they were starting to coalesce into something solid, something real.

They'd have a day or two between when they got back and when the marshals arrived. Time enough to make things right, or at least make _one_ thing right. Time enough to change.

"I forgive you, Parvis," Strife said at last, his words coming out slurred. "An' I'm sorry, too. I'm real sorry. Wantcha to know that. I'm real sorry."

"For _what,_ Sheriff?" Parvis asked.

"Everythin'," said Strife. "All of goddamn everythin', Parvis. I'm sorry."

"Hell, Sheriff. That means a lot."

"The fuck're you two mutterin' about back there?" Ridge called, glaring over his shoulder.

"Nothin', Ridge," Parvis replied.

"You sweet-talkin' my sheriff, Parvis?"

"No, Ridge."

"Why the hell not?" he asked, and grinned. "If you ain't gonna do it, you can come up here and sit all lonesome in the cold, and _I'll_ sweet-talk the sheriff. Matter of fact, we prob'ly oughtta do it that way anyhow, since you don't like him when he's drunk, and I sure as hell do."

"Ridge—"

"Naw, naw, Parvis, I'm feelin' like a good samaritan today, I'mma let you off the hook on this one. I been neglectful of your feelin's, leavin' you back there with the drunk-ass sheriff. Hop on down an' trade places with me, now."

"I don't mind—"

 _"Now,_ Parvis," Ridge snarled, showing teeth.

Parvis sighed and hung his head. "Yessir," he mumbled.

Ridge reined in his horse, and Parvis reined in his, and the two of them swapped places. Ridge swung himself into the saddle behind Strife and kissed him on the neck.

"Now ain't that better, Sheriff," he purred, while Parvis settled himself on the other horse and started off again. Ridge rolled his hips against Strife's and rested a hand on his thigh. "Got you all to myself this whole damn trip, now, don't I. Think I'm gonna enjoy this trip."

"Ain't nobody gonna miss you," Strife said.

Ridge grinned against his neck and slid his hand onto Strife's crotch.

"You will, Sheriff," he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would not be surprised if I end up writing a western au for the AH Crew. Damn me.
> 
> Also: sorry this has taken for-goddamn-ever.


	10. And In The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been fun, y'all.
> 
> A huge thanks to Nathan, who got me started on this, and who has been immensely supportive the whole way through.

The town was as they'd left it—cold and bustling and entirely unconcerned with them. There was grubby snow on the ground, but the sky had come out and it was starting to melt. Ridge had finally let Strife ride his horse by himself again, either having run out of excuses or having gotten bored.

Strife hadn't spoken since they'd left Achievement City. It wasn't that he hadn't had anything to say; it was just that he'd wanted to wait until the time was right to say any of it.

"Wellp," said Ridge, pushing his hat back with one finger. "Much fun as that was, can't say I ain't disappointed our Sheriff let _another_ merry murderess walk free. Gettin' to be a habit with you, Sheriff."

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Ridge," Parvis said, rolling his eyes. "Ain't like you shot her neither. And _technic'ly,_ she ain't even kill nobody."

"We gettin' technical now, Parvis?" Ridge asked, grinning at him. "'Cause if we're gettin' technical, then _technic'ly_ all them lovely deputies and that dumbass sweetheart of a sheriff went an' ran her ass down soon as we left town. That or she done froze to death. Serves her just about right, I'd say. Hey, y'know, maybe since she's runnin' from the law, the Vagabond went ahead and made him a coat outta her. A real small coat."

"You're a piece of shit, Ridge," Parvis said.

"Don't take kindly to name-callin', partner," Ridge said mildly, eyeing him sidelong.

"Ain't name-callin' if it's true."

"It's name-callin' if I _say_ it's name-callin'," Ridge replied. "And you call me anymore names, I'm gonna beat the rest of 'em outta you."

"That man's got you good an' spooked, ain't he," Parvis said coldly.

_"Spooked?_ You think that blue-eyed sonnuva bitch got to _me?_ Hell, Parvis, you're dumber'n you look, and that's sayin' somethin'."

Just then, a figure came running down the street, blond ponytail flapping behind them like a banner. They pulled up next to Strife's horse, which shied away and nickered.

Able White looked up at Strife and grinned, panting and flushed.

"Howdy, Sheriff sir," he said.

"The hell're you doin' here, Able?" Strife demanded.

"Saw you was back in town," said Able. "My ma's at the bank, gonna be there a while. You remember how you tole me to kill ki-yotes instead of other folks' chickens?"

"Yeah," said Strife, dubious.

"Well turns out ki-yotes is hard to kill," said Able. "On account of they're damn sneaky, and too smart besides. But I been killin' rats, Sheriff, instead. Lots and lots of rats. Folks even been started payin' me for it, you believe that?"

Strife looked down on him for a long time, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed. Able fidgeted.

"I ain't—I ain't done nothin' wrong," he said. "Ain't I, Sheriff? They's—they's only rats, I ain't done nothin' _wrong."_

"Naw," Strife said, his voice soft. "Naw, Able, you go right on killin' them rats. You kill as many of them rats as you damn well please. Ain't nobody gonna miss 'em, Able. Ain't _nobody_ gonna miss 'em."

Able brightened, his eyes gleaming. "Aw, _hell_ yes," he said. "Thanks, Sheriff!"

And he darted off again, dashing back down the road towards the bank.

Ridge dug his heels into his horse and started forward again, grinning.

"Damn if that boy don't wanna fuck you, Sheriff," he said.

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Ridge," Parvis snapped. "Jesus God, he ain't but fifteen goddamn years old."

"Plenty old enough to know he wants to fuck the sheriff," Ridge said. "'Sides, they're more fun when they're young and full of spunk. Ain't they, Parvis."

Parvis's jaw clenched, his hands tightened on the reins. He swallowed, his nostrils flaring.

"Shut. The Fuck. Up," he said slowly.

"What?" said Ridge. "You sure seemed happy about it at the time. Ain't like I was even that much older'n you, and hell, your daddy'd already taught you how to fuck pretty damn good. You wanna start complainin' about it now, I think that's gonna make you a hypocrite, ain't it, Parvis."

Parvis said nothing. Ridge laughed.

"Well hey, Sheriff, least the boy's got good instincts. Hey, you figger we could start whorin' you out to the populace? Damn near enough folks wanna fuck you anyhow, we might as well make some profit off it."

"Shut the fuck up," Strife said, "you rat bastard."

Ridge clicked his teeth and shook his head. "Thought we'd taught you better'n that, Sheriff. I'm a _wolf_ bastard, me. Fuck that up again and I'm gonna take a couple teeth."

"You go on and try," said Strife.

Ridge laughed again. "Aw, now he's gettin' all tough. Don't be contrary, Sheriff, I ain't got the patience for contrariness just now. Unless you _want_ a good fuckin' soon's we get back to the station, in which case, hell, I'll be just pleased as punch to oblige you."

"Ridge," said Strife, "you go on and try."

"Well, all right, Sheriff, if you insist," said Ridge, eyeing him. "You sure you don't wanna bargain for some drink afterwards? Otherwise I'm just gonna keep that for myself. Gets expensive, keepin' up with your li'l habit."

Strife did not respond. Ridge shrugged and grinned and shook his head. The three of them took their horses back to the stable in silence, and then walked to the sheriff's station in much the same. Ridge led the way inside, hanging up his hat and coat like he owned the place. Strife and Parvis followed, both tight-jawed and narrow-eyed.

Ridge flung himself into his chair and kicked up his feet onto the desk. He took out his gun, glanced it over, then popped the chamber open and started unloading it. As always, he lined up the bullets like perfect little soldiers on the edge of the desk.

"S'pose that went pretty damn well," he said, "all things considered."

Parvis, settling into his own shoddy, makeshift desk, rolled his eyes. "You got a pretty damn loose definition of _well."_

"Sure," said Ridge. "I got to kill me a bitch. Woulda been better if I'd got to kill that li'l Chinee too, but hell, can't have everythin'."

Strife went to his own desk and sat down. He folded his hands on the cold wood and stared at his knuckles. He breathed slow and deep, the air fanning the fire in his blood.

"You are a sonnuva bitch, you know that?" Parvis spat. "Serve you goddamn right, the goddamn fuckin' Vagabond followed your ass back here and wore you the rest of the damn winter."

Ridge grinned at him. He took out the oil and the soft cloth from his desk and set about cleaning out the revolver. Parts of it were black with gunpowder, others stained with blood.

"Speakin' of," he said. "I was thinkin' we might oughtta do somethin' about him. Even a goddamn madman like him has gotta sleep sometime or other."

"Sure, why don't you go get your damn self killed, tryna shoot the goddamn Vagabond," said Parvis. "You be my fuckin' guest."

"Man's killed no less'n six of my pals, Parvis," Ridge said, raising his eyebrows. He stuck the cloth in the barrel of his gun and twisted it around and around. "Figger that warrants some retribution. And hell, we're the law now, we can do whatever we damn well please. Wouldn't mind havin' another crack at that sheriff, neither, I didn't hardly get to do nothin' fun 'fore you dragged me off to rescue ol' Strifey."

Strife's hands clenched on the desk, his jaw tightened. He took slower, deeper breaths. The fire in his blood rose higher and higher, until the smoke started to fog up his brain, until the heat started to blur his eyes.

"You wasn't complainin' none when you shot Rythian all to hell," Parvis snapped.

"S'pose I wasn't," Ridge said. "Damn shame I never did get to fuck her, though. But hell, our sheriff's enough of a whore by now, don't figger it's so much different. And I ain't even got to pay!"

"Naw, Ridge," Strife said quietly, and there were sparks on his breath. "You're gonna pay plenty."

Ridge threw back his head and laughed.

"Oh, goddamn, that's fuckin' rich. All right, Sheriff, next time I fuck you silly, I'll drop a couple dollars on the pillow when I go. On account of that's all you're worth. Hey, I got an idea—how's about I fuck you right now? Parvis can stay and watch. Matter of fact, he can have you when I'm done. And then I can have you back when _he's_ done, and aw, shucks, Sheriff, we can just pass you back and forth all day. And maybe if you're real good, I'll letcha get blind drunk when we're done, on account of I'm feelin' all warm an' fuzzy. And then I'll go on fuckin' you all night by myself, 'cause Parvis won't want you no more."

Strife stood up, and took out his gun, and pointed it directly at Ridge's head.

"Get up," he said quietly.

Ridge stared at him.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, his hands frozen on his unloaded revolver.

"Get up," Strife repeated.

Slowly, Ridge got to his feet, setting the gun and the cleaning cloth down on the desk.

"Come on out from there," Strife said.

"Sheriff, the hell are you—" Parvis began, his voice shaking.

"Naw, Parvis," said Strife. "You be quiet. Ridge, you come out from there."

Ridge shot off a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, yessir, Sheriff," he said, sauntering around his desk. He raised his hands, his fingers curled lazily. His shoulders were just a little too tight, his eyes just a little too wide, betraying his easy nonchalance.

"On your knees," Strife said.

Ridge's grin widened. "Aw, hell, Sheriff, but you're a kinky sonnuva bitch. S'pose it's my turn, anyway, ain't it. Hahah, ain't it?"

Strife said nothing. He thumbed back the hammer on his revolver. Still grinning, Ridge knelt on the floor, keeping his hands raised. Strife walked up to him, unhurried, and set the barrel of the gun between his eyes.

He heard Ridge's breath catch, saw his smile go false and strained. He looked down on Ridge and met his eyes, watched the fear rise up in them as the blood drained from his cheeks. Ridge's hands had started shaking.

"Ain't nobody gonna miss you, Ridge," Strife said quietly. "Ain't nobody gonna wish you back."

"Ahah, now Sheriff, now that just plain ain't true," Ridge said, his eyes darting. "See, see Parvis, for example—"

"Naw," said Strife, still in that calm and quiet voice. "Not even Parvis."

"Oh? Oh you—you think so? You think Parvis—my Parvis—gonna let you shoot me? You think that?"

"Yep," said Strife.

"Hahah! Hah. Yeah, yeah all right, now Parvis, you—you ain't gonna let him _shoot_ me, are you? You ain't gonna let this washed-up two-bit worthless piece of shit drunk shoot _me,_ are you?"

There was a prolonged silence.

"Sorry, Ridge," said Parvis. "But I think I am."

Ridge went deathly pale, and his eyes got so wide that white showed all the way around them. He looked up at Strife, a smile stretched tight across his face, his gold tooth glinting as he shook.

"Now," he said, his voice thready, "now Sheriff. Hahah. Now you—you wouldn't shoot an unarmed ma—"

Strife fired.

There was a _crack,_ and a splatter, and the sharp ticking sounds of bone shrapnel hitting wood. Blood covered the floor, the desk. Ridge's face went slack.

Slowly, he keeled over, the back of his head an empty, bloody, ruined mess.

"Yes," Strife said, looking down on the corpse dispassionately. "Yes I would."

For a moment, there was silence. Strife holstered his gun and walked back to his desk. He sat down. He kicked his feet up on his desk.

"Parvis," he said, "somebody's done left a dead rat on my floor. Clean it up, wouldja?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw Parvis get to his feet and move, shakily, to Ridge's side. Parvis knelt down and gathered up the body, his jaw tight, his face pale.

"You don't got anythin' you wanna say, Parvis?" Strife asked.

"No, sir," said Parvis. He hoisted the corpse up and slung it over his shoulder like a gruesome sack of potatoes.

"Woulda thought you'd be more busted up about it," Strife said.

Parvis looked him dead in the eye and spoke softly.

"You think _he_ ain't never killed nobody I loved?" he asked.

Strife clenched his teeth and dropped his eyes.

"You best be quick, if you're plannin' on buryin' him," he said. "We're leavin' at sundown, 'fore the marshals get here tomorrow."

"Marshals?" said Parvis.

"Yep," said Strife. "Marshals."

For a moment, Parvis said nothing; then he shrugged, and started for the door.

"Yessir, Sheriff," he said.

"Naw, Parvis," said Strife. Carefully, he took the star off his chest and placed it on his desk. It was tarnished, dusty, and dented. It gleamed dully in the golden afternoon light.

"Naw?" said Parvis, pausing.

"Naw," he said. "From now on, you just call me _Strife."_

 

 

**THE END**

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Best Revenge...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104742) by [Zed_Zalias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zed_Zalias/pseuds/Zed_Zalias)




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